


Bound by silver

by AirgiodSLV



Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-12
Updated: 2009-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-19 02:27:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AirgiodSLV/pseuds/AirgiodSLV
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“You’ve brought…” Ryan begins, mouth too dry to articulate the word pounding in his skull.</i> Werewolf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is and has always been for [](http://maleyka.livejournal.com/profile)[**maleyka**](http://maleyka.livejournal.com/). Thanks to [](http://cupiscent.livejournal.com/profile)[**cupiscent**](http://cupiscent.livejournal.com/), [](http://disarm-d.livejournal.com/profile)[**disarm_d**](http://disarm-d.livejournal.com/), [](http://softlyforgotten.livejournal.com/profile)[**softlyforgotten**](http://softlyforgotten.livejournal.com/), and [](http://emilyray.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://emilyray.livejournal.com/)**emilyray** for their editing and input.
> 
> Warning: Dubious consent.

It’s past dusk by the time Ryan hears the creaking gate swing open, late enough that his belly is starting to rumble.

“Spencer,” he calls, sticking a shred of old paper into his book to mark his place and unfolding from the musty armchair in the living room, wandering over to open the back door. “Did you find something? Because if not we still have those leftover…”

And then he stops, because what Spencer’s brought home from hunting isn’t dinner at all. It’s a boy.

“Put some water on,” Spencer orders. His arm is under the boy’s shoulders, supporting him, and they’re not making very good time. The boy is stumbling with every other step, and Spencer looks more weary than he usually does at the end of a day spent hunting, energy flagging. Ryan can’t make out much beyond their silhouettes in the evening gloom; metal glinting off of the rifle strapped onto Spencer’s back and the last rays of the sun highlighting dark hair.

Ryan’s stunned into immobility for a few drawn-out seconds. Spencer pushes past him and Ryan inhales the scent of forest, of earth and cold evening air, before he snaps out of it and goes to hang the water pot over the fire.

“He’s hurt,” Spencer says, unnecessarily because now that they’re inside, Ryan can see the dark blood staining the boy’s shirt at the shoulder, his shirt hanging in ragged strips off of a body that hasn’t seen enough meals lately, to judge by how many of his ribs Ryan can see revealed beneath frayed chunks of linen. “Do we have bandages?”

Ryan unfreezes at that, shock giving way to motion as his brain settles on something concrete to do. He pulls the tin down from the mantel over the fireplace, sorting through snatches of cloth until he finds strips of cotton long enough to serve as bandages. There aren’t enough; he can tell already that there’s more skin torn than he has cloth to cover. He has more strips in his room, though, salvaged from the scrap tin to serve as scarves. Those will be long enough. The boy’s shirt won’t work at all; it’s stiff with rusted stains, and filthy with dirt besides.

Spencer’s gotten the boy’s shirt off, setting him down close by the fire to help calm the shivering that’s making his shoulders quake. There’s dirt caked over the wounds, blood gone tacky and smeared across his skin, but Ryan can still make out the long tracks of broken skin raking across his ribs, and the sluggishly-bleeding hole cut deep into his shoulder.

“Wolves?” Ryan asks. He and Spencer live at the edge of the forest, closer than anyone else in the village. He knows well what’s out there, howling at night. Those marks could easily have been made by claws. He hopes it was only wolves, if that’s the case. There are also worse things than mere wolves in the forest, with a bite far more fatal. It’s three days after the full moon, though, so it’s not likely. These wounds are too fresh to be from that long ago.

The boy shakes his head. “Tree branches,” he says, and his voice is a little faint, breathy with swallowed pain, but he’s coherent enough. “I fell. I…”

He trails off, eyes closing; still awake but focused inwards now, muscles tense although the shivering has mostly abated. Spencer wets one of the smaller rags in the water, now hot enough to let loose steady curls of steam, and wrings it out before carrying it over to where the boy is waiting. He touches the cloth carefully to the worst of the wounds, pressing in with steady hands, and the boy hisses softly in pain.

“Clean through,” Spencer says after a moment, swiping gently at the other side of the boy’s shoulder. “You got lucky.”

There’s a little choked-off laugh, breaking the tense silence of cloth-on-skin and three people hardly breathing. “Lucky,” the boy says, with a twisted smile that makes him look older, more cynical. He’s probably closer to their age than Ryan had first guessed; it’s just the weariness and lack of weight that makes him look younger.

Ryan’s attention snags, caught by Spencer’s words and the wound he can see more clearly now, without the matted layer of dirt. “You were _shot?_ ” he asks, shocked even though he knows that these things happen, sometimes. It’s impossible to avoid accidents with so many people out hunting in the forest, for their dinners and worse.

“Not by me,” Spencer states immediately. His hands are still careful on the boy’s shoulders, fingertips barely grazing skin. Ryan would never have accused him, but even so, his shoulders relax somewhat. He wonders what the boy was doing out there in the forest in the first place, and if he knows about how dangerous it is. There are hunters out there every day, and there are the other kinds of hunters, the ones not looking for deer or rabbits, but patrolling the outskirts of the village, making sure it stays safe. The ones who don’t carry ordinary bullets in their guns, because they know what lives out there in the dark.

The boy makes a little sound of pain when Spencer starts probing the shoulder wound, cleaning it out. Spencer’s hand hovers, reassuring, but doesn’t touch. Firelight glints off of the metal of his rings, one on each finger, protection of some small sort in the forest against things that Spencer doesn’t hunt. Ryan wears them too, on every finger of both hands. They all do.

For the first time, he realizes what’s wrong with the boy sitting in front of their hearth.

“Spencer,” he says. Low-voiced, warning. A question. He can’t imagine that Spencer didn’t notice, that it wasn’t the first thing Spencer looked for when he found someone wandering alone in the forest, injured and too-thin. It’s still better to believe that Spencer didn’t notice, rather than that he brought this here deliberately into their home after he did.

There are no rings on the boy’s hands. Basic protection, what marks them as human and keeps what lives in the forest at bay. Silver encircling each finger to prove that you’re one of us, and not one of them. The boy has none. He has no rings, no necklace, not even an earring, as the latest fashion dictates among those growing awkwardly out of adolescence. No silver anywhere on his body.

Spencer’s ignoring him. Ryan’s fists clench, his muscles suddenly tight with warring instincts. Spencer keeps at his work, while the boy who has no silver turns progressively paler with every swipe of the cloth, until he finally opens his mouth to whisper, “I think…” and keels over in the direction of the fire.

Ryan moves without thinking, catching the boy’s wrist with one hand to pull him back upright and out of danger. When he does, though, the boy cries out in pain; the low, broken noise of a wounded animal, and Ryan is startled into letting go again. When he does, he sees the five perfectly-shaped crescents burned into the boy’s skin, the same shape and width of the rings on Ryan’s fingers.

“Spencer,” he says again, with more urgency this time. His brain is panicking, even though there’s not much the thing can do to them right now, barely conscious and weakened by blood loss. There’s still a danger. There’s _always_ a danger.

“I know,” Spencer says tightly, as if he can hear the words Ryan hasn’t said out loud. “I know.” He keeps cleaning, though, eyes fixed on the bloody flesh in front of him and not Ryan’s shocked, horrified eyes. There’s another set of burn marks just below where the blood has dried, five more perfect crescents set into the skin covering whipcord muscle. Ryan doesn’t even have to look twice to know that they’re Spencer’s.

It will kill them. Ryan knows as well as anyone that it’s not just children’s tales and nightmares; that these things are dangerous no matter what phase the moon is in. Hunted, exiled from every settlement, driven to starvation and madness by the animal lurking under the skin, they will kill whoever helps them and steal whatever they can, anything that will help them survive. The fact that this one currently looks like a harmless, injured young man means nothing. If they leave it here, there’s every chance that they’ll never wake up in the morning.

“You’ve brought…” Ryan begins, mouth too dry to articulate the word pounding in his skull. _Werewolf._

“Brendon,” the thing bleeding out on Ryan’s wooden floor says. “My name’s Brendon.”

* * *

There’s a werewolf in front of their fireplace. Ryan’s brain can’t seem to get past that one stuttering thought, even when he tries to spur himself into some sort of action. Spencer had given him that look, the one that promises _we’ll talk about this later, just not right now_ , and Ryan’s mouth had shut automatically like a clam over a pearl. It hadn’t mattered at that point anyway; Brendon had lasted maybe another three minutes before the blood loss combined with the pain and he’d passed out on the hearth.

Spencer doesn’t stop working, getting dirt out of the cuts before they can fester and stopping the bleeding as much as he can. He pauses as he starts trying to wrap the bandages over the broken skin, unable to support the dead weight and bind at the same time. Ryan sees the problem immediately, but he can’t bring himself to move until Spencer looks up and says, “Ryan, can you…?” and looks back down before Ryan can take the coward’s way out and shake his head.

He props Brendon more-or-less upright, touching gingerly while Spencer places the bandages. He stops again, just before wrapping the first one, frowning at the wound still slowly leaking blood onto the surrounding skin. Ryan opens his mouth to ask the question, but before he can, Spencer sets down the bandage and slides the rings off of his fingers. Ryan’s intake of breath is louder than anything else in the room, heard clearly over the muted crackling of the fire.

“I can’t get them on without touching him,” Spencer argues, always so reasonable even though Ryan can see the tension in his arms, and knows that Spencer must be just as terrified as Ryan is, even if he’s doing a better job of hiding it.

Rationally, Ryan knows that there’s not much Brendon can do to them right now. Not only is he unconscious, he’s also in human form, bound to it for another three weeks. And while in that form, his bite isn’t any more dangerous than any other human’s.

It’s the irrational part of him that keeps his heart pounding against his chest every second that he spends this close, close enough to count Brendon’s dark eyelashes and feel the breath coming softly against Ryan’s exposed chest over the V-neck of his shirt. It’s the part of him that grew up hearing stories about werewolves, the part that’s seen the carcasses slung over Jon’s shoulders when he returns home after a full moon, weary and soaked with blood. The part that remembers a night two years ago, when there had been a strange man in their yard ripping up hunks of grass from the earth with his bare hands, one that had snarled when Ryan froze in the open doorway, saliva dripping from its open mouth, and only disappeared when Spencer had appeared at Ryan’s side and cocked the rifle.

Right now, Brendon doesn’t seem so much like that one, but he is. They’re all the same, under the skin. And if anyone catches them helping this one, with winter closing in only a few months away and the danger of losing flocks or family to werewolves a danger that threatens more with every degree the temperature drops, they’ll be in more trouble than Spencer will be able to get them out of. They’ll go to the stocks at best; at worst, they’ll end up shot by the same rifle that will undoubtedly aim for Brendon first.

Ryan watches Spencer’s hands deftly wrapping and tying the bandages, and wonders if anything could possibly be worth losing his best friend. He can’t say it out loud, though, struck mute by Spencer’s silent plea. All he can do is hold the thin boy’s body steady between them, and watch Spencer’s naked hands pressed flat against pale, chilled skin.

When Spencer finally finishes, when they’ve put away the excess cloth and washed the blood from their hands, they sit at the table to talk. Ryan gets out what’s left of the turnip stew from last night and they eat it cold, without bothering to hang the pot over the fire. Ryan doesn’t want to disturb the lump curled in front of the hearth, and Spencer, it seems, is just too hungry and tired to wait.

“You can’t leave him here,” is the first thing that Ryan says, fingers strained taut over the rag he’s using as a napkin. “He’ll kill us in our sleep.”

Spencer chews slowly, eyes shrewd and thoughtful. “I don’t think he will,” he says after he swallows. “He doesn’t have anywhere to go, anyway. If he tries to run, he’ll just die in the forest.”

Ryan looks sideways at the shape pretending to be a boy. He’s backlit by the fire, hair and skin touched with gold and red, human hues. It’s harder to think of killing him when he looks like he could have been one of them. He had been, once. Before he’d been bitten. Not anymore.

“We could lock him in the cellar,” Ryan hears himself suggest slowly. Their food is down there, but Ryan doesn’t think Brendon will risk spoiling it just for the sake of destruction, not when they’re all he has. It’s a safer alternative than leaving him inside the house, unconscious or not. They don’t know how long he’ll stay that way.

“He’ll freeze down there tonight,” Spencer argues. Ryan gives him a look that probably shows how much he doesn’t care, that he thinks it would probably be best for all of them if Brendon simply died in his sleep and never woke up. Spencer doesn’t argue, exactly, but his eyes get that stubborn glint to them that Ryan knows means he won’t back down.

They end up compromising. Spencer ties Brendon’s hands with thick rope, and his feet as well. They leave him in front of the fireplace, but Ryan clears out everything – knives, rifle, poker for the fire – that could be used against them. He puts it all in the room they use for sleeping, and shifts the heavy board from its place against the wall, ready to bar the door.

“I should sleep out here,” Spencer says after a moment, eyes on the ragged figure by the fire. “In case he wakes.”

Ryan stares hard at Brendon, and then at Spencer. He’s been out in the forest all day hunting, and there are circles under his eyes, spine slumped.

“Go to sleep,” he orders, taking up position in the chair closest to the fire. “I’ll take the first watch.”

* * *

Spencer takes over for Ryan in the early hours of the morning, so he sleeps in late, waking well past dawn with the birds outside already singing. He washes his face, scrubbing crumbling sleep-dust from his eyes, and then remembers why he’s slept in so late.

Spencer’s still keeping watch, but from the bubbling pot over the fire, it looks like he’s managed to split that duty with making breakfast. The werewolf is still asleep, although Ryan notes uneasily that his legs are untied.

Spencer, as usual, reads his mind and the direction of his gaze. “He woke up a few hours after you went to bed and needed to use the chamber pot. I gave him some water as well.”

Ryan understands, logically, the need for it, but it still leaves him feeling edgy. “He’s back asleep now,” he points out, and holds Spencer’s gaze stubbornly, willing him to disagree.

Spencer sighs, but doesn’t protest. He picks up the rope from the floor a few feet away and tugs Brendon’s ankles together, binding them securely. Brendon kicks a little in his sleep, Ryan notes, but it’s not really a fight. They’ll need more than this, though, if he wakes up again, stronger. Ryan doesn’t know whether mere rope can hold a determined werewolf.

Spencer takes advantage of his proximity to check the bandages, peeling up one corner of the cloth gingerly to look beneath. Ryan remembers the shape Brendon was in last night, and is amazed at how much healthier he looks already, with the sun coming through the windows to give him some color and banish the ashy pallor from his skin. He looks even more human when taken out of the moonlight.

“He’s lucky,” Ryan murmurs. If it had been anyone other than Spencer who found him; if the bullet had gone further to the left; if it had been a day later, even, before he got aid. Perhaps werewolves led charmed lives.

“Luckier than we first thought,” Spencer says grimly. Ryan’s eyes snap up, but Spencer isn’t looking at him; he’s still examining the gunshot wound beneath the bandages. “Come look at this,” Spencer invites, and Ryan isn’t comfortable being that close, even with their prisoner bound hand and foot, but he goes anyway because it’s Spencer who’s asking.

At first he doesn’t see what Spencer’s talking about. The wound is cleaner than most, perhaps, but Spencer does a good job at that sort of thing. It’s starting to close a little, but there’s still a clear hole in the front where the bullet first punctured, before it tore through the muscle and out the other side. Ryan can see, a little, the inside of the wound where the bullet passed.

Then he realizes what he’s looking at. “It’s…”

“Cauterized,” Spencer says. “Burned. Like someone stabbed through with a fire poker.”

Ryan’s hands have gone strangely cold at his sides. “You said it was a bullet,” he clarifies. He already knows what that means, of course, but he needs for Spencer to be the one to say it. He wipes the clamminess from his hands onto his pants and waits.

“It was a bullet,” Spencer says. “A bullet that can burn flesh. _Werewolf_ flesh.”

Ryan’s eyes are drawn to the crescents on Brendon’s arms where Ryan touched him last night. Spencer, he notes unhappily, still isn’t wearing his rings. Maybe he took them off again when Brendon woke up and needed help to reach the chamber pot. It’s entirely too easy for Ryan to imagine Spencer assisting Brendon across the floor and suddenly being choked, strangled by an arm around his throat just before sharp teeth move in close for a bite. He wonders if Spencer had been thinking the same thing, or if he’d just seen it as his duty to help.

“He wasn’t shot by just any hunter,” Spencer finishes. “Somewhere out there is a werewolf hunter who knows he exists. That he’s wounded but alive. And nearby.”

There are only two hunters in their village, but there are others close by, and it’s easy to overlap in the forest. It doesn’t mean anything specific. Brendon could have come from anywhere, and who knows how far he traveled after the bullet hit, or where Spencer found him. There’s nothing concrete to lead a hunter here.

Brendon stirs. Ryan recoils automatically, but Spencer’s hands just tighten, a warning that Brendon heeds by going still immediately, roused instantly to waking. Ryan can see the pulse in his throat jumping madly, inches from Spencer’s fingers. Spencer can probably feel it in his hands.

“Don’t try anything,” Spencer warns. His grip eases after a moment, but only slightly. Ryan’s whole body is tensed, waiting.

Brendon opens his eyes, slowly starts to shift and hisses in pain when the movement tugs at his shoulder. “There’s not a lot I could do, really,” he points out, with amazing coherence. “I’m tied to the floor.”

Ryan frowns, but Spencer is the one to correct, “You’re not. We just tied your hands and feet.”

“Oh.” Ryan sees Brendon try to move again, and fall pitifully motionless after only the smallest of twitches. “It feels like it. Could you…could I sit up, please?”

Ryan gives him a look making it clear that if Brendon tries anything, _anything_ with Spencer, Ryan will gut him with the nearest hunting knife. Brendon looks appropriately meek while Spencer slides an arm around his waist and helps him upright. Ryan isn’t fooled.

“Please…” Brendon says hopefully, and Spencer seems to know what he means, fetching the dipper hanging next to the water pail and pouring a small amount into a dish. He holds it up to Brendon’s lips and Brendon slurps greedily, decorum forgotten at the first taste. Ryan’s lips curl, watching him. The wolf shows now, although it’s almost more like a dog, lapping desperately at the water. There’s some trickling down his chin.

It’s an uncharitable thought to have, some reluctant part of him admits. If Ryan had been shot, lost a considerable amount of blood, wandered in the forest for an indeterminate length of time and then spent a night unconscious, he’d probably be thirsty as well. And Brendon can’t exactly sip daintily with both hands tied. Ryan’s seen other werewolves, the kind that slaver and growl and snuffle with dirt on their faces and their own filth streaking their legs. Brendon’s about as far from that as one could possibly get.

That doesn’t mean much, Ryan knows, but that he hasn’t had the chance to go feral yet. Spencer must be thinking the same thing, because the next thing he asks is, “How long?”

Brendon licks water awkwardly from his lips, turning his head to wipe the rest from his chin and halting mid-motion, wincing when the movement pulls at his shoulder. He doesn’t play innocent or misinterpret, just swallows and answers finally, “Five weeks.”

He was their age when he was bitten, then, and not out on his own for long. Ryan doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse. “What happened?” he asks. He’s curious, and he loves stories, follows them like the scent of something delicious cooking on the hearth, or the sound of laughter. He doesn’t find many new ones in their village, but Brendon has one.

Brendon shrugs, and at first Ryan doesn’t think he’s going to answer. “I got bitten,” he says eventually. “My family knew; my brother saw it happen. My family cast me out.” He looks up then, expression earnest. “There was nothing else they could have done,” he says, and Ryan wonders who he’s really trying to convince. “My parents lead the services, someone would have noticed I was missing. Even if they tied me up, even if they tried. They didn’t have a choice.” He swallows, and then says in a very small voice, “At least they didn’t kill me.”

He tries to move, awkwardly, to make himself more comfortable. Spencer moves in to help him, getting a hand on his arm to steady him. Brendon looks startled, but doesn’t flinch away. “Who shot you?” Spencer asks, as Brendon settles again. “We know it was a hunter, the bullet was silver.”

Brendon winces. If he’s noticed the lack of silver on Spencer’s body right now, he doesn’t say anything, or betray the fact with a glance. “A man,” he says. Ryan waits for a moment, for more, but nothing seems forthcoming. His expression must give away his incredulousness, because Brendon argues defensively, “It was dark, and I didn’t…I wasn’t myself. I don’t know any more. It was a man with a gun.”

Spencer rolls his eyes, but Ryan’s curiosity is piqued. He’s never known what it was like to change, and he never wants to, but there’s still a part of him that wonders. It would have been Brendon’s first change, a few days ago, the first time his skin stretched into another shape and stole away his humanity. Ryan wonders if he remembers it, and if so, what it felt like.

Something in Brendon’s eyes keeps him from asking, and Spencer’s warning glare finishes the job. “You’re lucky it went through,” Spencer comments instead, over top of Ryan’s silence. “It would have killed you, otherwise.”

Ryan can see Brendon’s eyes echo _lucky_ , with more sarcasm than he would have expected. Then Brendon’s expression sobers, and he asks, “Are you going to? Kill me?”

Spencer doesn’t even look at Ryan. “Not yet,” he says. The porridge above the fire bubble and spits. Spencer takes it off the hook and asks, “Are you hungry?”

* * *

They leave the question of what to do alone for the day, although Ryan can see it in Spencer’s eyes every time they look at each other, and knows Spencer can see it in his as well. Brendon doesn’t ask, and Ryan doesn’t have as much practice reading his expressions, but from the way he holds himself, he can’t be thinking of anything else.

Brendon is still tied, although Spencer has fashioned a sling to keep his shoulder comfortable so that he can sit upright. They’d had a brief argument, with Brendon pretending not to be looking on interestedly between them, and finally ended up tethering Brendon by his ankles to the iron ring used to hold the fireplace poker upright. The poker itself is still in the other room, of course. Brendon doesn’t protest the additional precautionary measures, although it does make his hobbling trip to the chamber pot even more awkward.

When the sun starts to go down, Ryan can’t pretend anymore. He gives Spencer a look, and Spencer sighs and sits down. Brendon had been dozing in the warmth of the fire, but he stirs when they both sit down, as if sensing the decision is about to be made.

“We can’t keep him here,” Ryan says flat out, because that’s the most important thing. “It’s not safe.”

“He’s hardly a danger right now,” Spencer points out, but he’s chewing his lip, so Ryan knows he agrees.

“Not just him,” Ryan argues. “Someone shot him. Someone’s _looking_ for him.”

“There’s no reason for them to come here,” Spencer says, but again, it’s not really an argument. They both know that anyone could, at any time. And the consequences of being caught with a werewolf are higher than either of them can really afford to pay.

“We could put him in the cellar,” Ryan suggests, even though they’d ruled that out last night. Brendon is healthier today, and with a blanket, it might not be too bad.

“For how long?” Spencer asks immediately, and he’s right. Ryan’s thinking of short-term solutions, what to do _now,_ because asking himself what they’re going to do with a pet werewolf for the foreseeable future is more than his mind can grasp. “It’s going to get colder,” Spencer continues.

“Until he heals,” Ryan offers, but even that’s not really a viable solution. A gunshot wound could take weeks to heal. Months. And then what, they turn him out into the forest and wish him good luck surviving? If someone did that to Ryan, he’d sneak back in, kill them and take whatever he could. He wouldn’t doubt that Brendon might do the same.

Then again, there’s really nothing stopping him from doing it right now, if they turn him out. Ryan doesn’t think either of them are ready to hold the rifle to Brendon’s head. Which means turning him over to Jon, because Jon can.

“I’m good at doing dishes,” Brendon says suddenly, interrupting the silent discussion winding down between Ryan and Spencer’s eyes. “And gardening. I always used to garden, back when…before. And I can clean and skin things. My father hunted.”

“With one arm?” Spencer asks skeptically. Brendon flushes, but his chin stays up. He’s by far the most articulate and persuasive werewolf Ryan has ever heard of. It’s more than a little unsettling.

“Spencer hunts,” Ryan puts in. If Brendon thinks they’re handing him a rifle and letting him loose in the forest, he must be delirious. “He already knows all of that.”

Spencer leans back, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Why?” he asks, and Brendon blinks for a moment before he either realizes the question is directed at him or comes up with an answer.

“Where else am I going to go?” he asks rhetorically, and there’s enough beaten-down anguish in his voice that Ryan believes him. It’s either stay here or go back out into the forest, where there are hunters and animals and unforgiving tree roots to sleep on at night, with winter coming on.

“We’d have to hide him,” Ryan says, and he’s surprised at how certain his voice sounds, like he’s already made up his mind when he hadn’t been aware of doing any such thing. “If anyone knows he’s here…”

“We can’t hide him forever,” Spencer argues, not even batting an eyelash at Ryan’s sudden decisiveness. “Someone will notice.”

“Not if he has rings,” Ryan says. “You’re a smith; you could make some out of some other metal, no one would ever know.”

“He’d miss services,” Spencer says flatly, cutting Ryan off mid-plan. “There’s no way he could be at full moon services, and people would notice. People would talk.”

Of course they would, it’s why they have full moon services to begin with. To keep the werewolves out, to make sure that every human is present and accounted for, safe in the company of others on the most dangerous night of each month. The only people who don’t attend are the hunters, and they’re above suspicion. They come home carrying too many lycanthropic corpses.

“It’s risky,” Ryan says finally. “I don’t like it.”

Spencer favors him with a small smile, like he knows that no matter what they came up with, Ryan’s answer would be the same. It probably would. “Do you have a better alternative?”

Ryan mulls it over, but Brendon has been here for too long now, murmuring thank you to Spencer for wrapping his arm in a sling and complimenting Ryan’s potato-leek soup and forgetting himself for long enough to crack a joke about Spencer’s inability to herd chickens. Ryan can’t think of him as anything other than one of them. “No,” he says finally.

There’s silence for a few moments, and then Brendon asks tentatively, “Does this mean I’m staying?”

* * *

They encounter their first problems within a few days. Brendon has healed enough to do simple chores, things that don’t require much strength or time because he’s worn out even by the simplest of acts, like shuffling to the chamber pot without Spencer’s support. He wants to help, is even eager to make himself useful to them, but there’s only so much he can do. Ryan won’t let him do anything in the kitchen because the knives are too close, and he doesn’t want to untie Brendon’s hands. Even knowing he’s not much of a threat, bound in human form and sick with blood loss, Ryan can’t quite bring himself to trust.

Finally Spencer says, “Let him pull some weeds in the garden. The fresh air will be good for him, and I’ll be out there skinning dinner.”

Ryan looks at the bloody carcass outside their back door, then at Spencer. “You’ll be busy,” he says, low-voiced. Brendon could slip the leash and run, or worse, sneak up and kill Spencer. Or try, anyway. Ryan doesn’t really think he has any chance of succeeding.

Spencer just grins, sharp. “I’ll have a big knife,” he points out, and Ryan yields.

They’re still keeping Brendon bound, although it’s mostly a remnant of precaution, since they untie his legs whenever he asks to use the chamber pot, and his hands during meals so that they don’t have to feed him. Ryan unties him without explaining, knowing that Brendon’s been watching and listening since they started speaking. He’d feel more annoyed about the eavesdropping if they weren’t all practically on top of each other in the small space anyway.

Brendon doesn’t need much help walking anymore, but Ryan follows closely anyway, just in case. Spencer’s already at work, sharp knife digging in cleanly beneath the skin to separate meat from hide. They get as far as the back door and then Brendon stops suddenly, vibrating with tension.

“What is it?” Ryan asks, and Spencer looks up at them, frowning.

There are beads of sweat beginning to stand out on Brendon’s brow, and his joints are locked stiff, unmoving. “I…” he says, and then stops to lick his lips, breathing hard. “I can’t…”

Spencer sets down the carcass and stands watching, alert. He’ll be ready if Brendon goes down, Ryan knows, but equally ready if this is a trick and Brendon’s going to try something. Ryan doesn’t move, just waits. Brendon still hasn’t unfrozen.

“I can’t move,” Brendon says, and then laughs, awkward and strained and, Ryan thinks, frightened beneath it. He flinches back a little, into the house, and takes the first deep breath he’s had in a while. Then he starts to move forward again but stops almost immediately, frozen in the doorway. “I can’t,” he says again, arms crossing over his chest. “I can’t, I don’t…”

“Spence,” Ryan says, understanding dawning. “The garden.”

Spencer looks around, confused. He gets it a second later, Ryan knows, but shakes his head. “It’s just a myth,” he says, gesturing at the green patch nearest to him. “He came through here before.”

“He was unconscious,” Ryan says. “And you were carrying him.”

Brendon’s trembling in earnest now, obviously not clued in to what they’re talking about, his skin going ashy as he drags in breaths. “What…?” he asks, and then stops, throat working. He swallows loud enough that Ryan can hear it, and inches back, almost unconsciously.

“Wolfsbane,” Ryan says. The whole garden is lined with it, precautions taken at every corner. It’s mostly for the sake of tradition – a myth, as Spencer had pointed out – but apparently there’s also some truth to it.

Brendon shakes his head. “That can’t be it,” he says. “We have it too, in our garden. My family. I’ve walked through a thousand times…” And then he stops, going even paler, and Ryan thinks grimly that it’s starting to hit home.

“Sit down,” Spencer says suddenly, sharply, and Ryan moves just in time to catch Brendon as he buckles. Brendon clings to him, still shaking, close enough that Ryan can smell the sweat on his skin. He sees Spencer’s grip tighten on the handle of the knife, and realizes too late the situation he’s put himself in; Brendon has an arm around his shoulders, inches from his throat, and his hands and feet aren’t tied. If this is a trick, Ryan’s in a perfect position to be used as a hostage.

Brendon makes no move against him, though, just lets Ryan ease him down until he’s sitting, head dropped forward between his legs. “I can never go back,” he says, and there’s genuine shock in his voice, as if until this point there had still been a possibility, a slight chance, and now it’s winked out of existence. “Even if they…if I…I can’t even…”

He stops talking abruptly, mouth snapping shut. Ryan understands that instinct. In a similar position, he would have done the same thing. There’s no point in pouring your heart out to people who don’t care. Especially when those people have their garden filled with a superstitious plant meant to keep you away.

Spencer sets down his knife, slowly, and Ryan finds that he’s not really worried. Brendon might still be waiting for his chance, looking for an opportunity, but it’s not going to come now. They could easily overpower him even if he lunged for the knife, and all signs point to that being unlikely. Anyway, Ryan notes, Spencer’s set the knife down in the nearest patch of wolfsbane. Just in case.

Brendon’s back is shuddering, chest heaving as he tries to breathe. Spencer approaches slowly and sits down next to them on the other side of the doorway, a physical barrier between Brendon and the garden, and the reminder of a place he could never return to. Spencer reaches out and Ryan leans in, and between them, Brendon lets out a jagged, shaken breath and doesn’t cry.

* * *

They’re eating dinner when Ryan first hears singing. It’s coming from outside, around the side of the house where the path leads to the front door they never use. Ryan’s head jerks up in surprise, and he sees that Spencer’s heard it, too. Neither of them move for a single frozen second, and then they both turn to look at Brendon.

He stares back at them, eyes wide, and shakes his head. Ryan hadn’t realized they’d been asking him a question, but Spencer moves as soon as Brendon does, heading for the window nearest that side of the house. Ryan sets his bowl aside and stands, uncertain. Brendon doesn’t move, gone completely still.

Spencer returns in a matter of seconds, attention fixed on Ryan. “It’s Jon.”

That’s all he says, but Ryan hears what he means underneath it. Spencer is giving Ryan a chance to get out of this now, without any repercussions. Jon is a hunter, but he’s one they trust, one they consider a friend. Jon would see Brendon tethered to the floor and not ask any questions. Jon wouldn’t turn them in to the authorities for harboring a werewolf. Jon would take Brendon out and kill him and never say a word.

Ryan doesn’t realize he’s made the decision until the words come out of his mouth. “The attic,” he says. “We can hide him up there.”

“No time,” Spencer says, but he’s already moving, yanking at the knot tying Brendon to the iron ring. It snags, and he gives up after only a few seconds, dropping the rope. Ryan takes over, picking at the knot that’s somehow gotten hopelessly tangled, growing more and more panicked as it refuses to give. Spencer shoulders him out of the way a second later and hacks the rope apart with a kitchen knife.

“Go,” he orders, and Ryan grabs the rope with one hand and Brendon’s uninjured elbow with the other, pulling him into the bedroom. There’s a trapdoor that opens from the ceiling, and a ladder that drops down, leading up to the attic. Brendon stumbles on the rungs, and Ryan belatedly lets go of his arm so that he has one hand free to use for climbing.

He follows Brendon up to make sure the attic is clear of guns and knives, that there’s no escape route once Ryan shuts the trap. Brendon is mute, tense, his eyes huge and pleading when he looks at Ryan. Ryan gnaws on his lip, assessing the situation, and then wraps the rope still binding Brendon’s legs around his wrists, trussing him up as hastily as he can. His efforts twist Brendon’s shoulder, and Ryan hisses, “Sorry,” over Brendon’s bitten-off noise of pain.

Below them, he hears Jon knock on the front door.

Brendon’s eyes grow even wider. Ryan can’t take the time to reassure him, just yanks the knot taut and retreats, sliding down the ladder and slamming the trap shut just as he hears Spencer open the door. He dusts his palms off and walks into the room just in time to hear Jon say, “Good evening.”

“Jon,” Ryan greets him, before Spencer can say anything, give an excuse for why Ryan isn’t here. Spencer looks over at him, but his expression is inscrutable, no trace of a question in his eyes.

“Come in,” Spencer says, and Jon steps over the threshold, into the warmth of the room. Ryan feels guilty just looking at him, cramps twisting his stomach. He knows what happened to Tom.

“I just came to see how you were doing,” Jon offers. His hands are stuffed into his pockets, face crinkled and smiling. “You live close to the forest, and we haven’t seen you in the village for a week now.”

“We were there for services,” Spencer says smoothly, although that was nearly two weeks ago now, so it doesn’t negate Jon’s point. He waits until Jon gets further into the room to close the door behind him, a dull thud that echoes as awkward silence descends on the room.

“Are you hungry?” Ryan speaks up, to fill the pause. “We were just having dinner.”

“Sure, if you’ve enough to spare,” Jon agrees affably. Ryan turns to dish up another serving and inhales sharply when he sees the bowls sitting out on the floor. His, Spencer’s. Brendon’s.

Spencer reads his mind, thank God, and blocks Jon’s view, holding out a hand. “Let me take your coat, it’s warmer by the fire.” Jon turns his back to let Spencer help him and Ryan scoops up the third bowl, dishing another spoonful of stew over what’s left to cover the fact that it’s been eaten from already. Jon doesn’t seem to notice anything when Ryan hands it to him, just thanks him and takes a seat.

“You cook pretty well for hermits,” Jon jokes after the first bite, and then stops, his expression changing. Ryan follows his gaze, frowning, and sees the rusted stain from the first night, when Brendon had passed out on the wooden floor.

“It was raining a while back,” Spencer says, smoothly answering the question Jon hasn’t asked. “It was easier to do the skinning inside, and the rabbits were fresh.”

Jon’s brow is still furrowed, but he lets it go with half a shrug. “You do what you have to,” he says simply.

After a few more bites, Spencer asks, “So you came all the way out here to check up on us?”

Jon shrugs. “I shot a werewolf the last time I was out this way, during the full moon.” Ryan’s breath catches, but he keeps his eyes on Jon, expression neutral, fingers clenched tight around the bowl in his hands. Jon doesn’t seem to notice. “I got it pretty good, I think, but I haven’t found a body, so I wanted to make sure it hadn’t tried to raid your place.”

“Nothing here,” Ryan says. His voice is perfectly even, the way he knows Spencer’s wouldn’t be. Ryan has always been a better liar.

“Good,” Jon says. “Let me know if you get any trouble.”

“We will,” Ryan promises. Spencer starts to agree as well, leaning forward so his hair falls over his face, when there’s a thump from overhead like something falling. Like a body tipping over sideways.

Jon’s eyes snap up, and Spencer’s do as well. Ryan keeps looking straight at Jon, although his heart has sped up, and blurts out, “Squirrels.”

Jon’s eyebrows shoot up. “Squirrels?” he asks.

“In the attic,” Spencer clarifies, shooting a quick glance at Ryan and recovering some of his poise. “Crazy squirrels.”

“Nutty squirrels,” Ryan corrects, and smirks, enough to make Jon laugh.

“Tell me if it ever becomes a real problem,” Jon offers. “I have a rifle.”

Spencer flinches slightly. Ryan guesses he’s thinking about Brendon, but doesn’t let himself think about it. “Spencer has traps,” he says. “We’re fine. They’re pretty scrawny, though. Not worth the bother.”

Jon laughs again, eyes crinkling up at the corners. Ryan stands up and offers politely, “More stew?”

* * *

Jon stays well into the evening, until Ryan is nearly to the point of asking him to stay the night, as politeness dictates. He’s stayed over a few times before, in bad weather, and would have no reason to refuse their hospitality. Ryan isn’t worried about being caught as much as he is about leaving Brendon unattended overnight.

He realizes that he’s more concerned about Brendon spending a night awkwardly tied on a hard, cold floor than he is about the possibility of Brendon getting loose and sneaking down from the attic while no one’s watching him. That thought surprises him into losing track of the conversation for a moment, and when he tunes in again it’s because Jon is squeezing his arm and saying, “Have a good evening.”

“You’re welcome to stay,” Ryan says automatically.

Jon smiles, but shakes his head. “I have my own bed, and it’s not far. Thanks for the offer, though. And the stew.”

“Anytime,” Spencer says.

Jon laughs. “Maybe next time it’ll have some of those squirrels in it,” he says, and Ryan’s heart thuds against his rib cage, but he doesn’t let his expression flicker in the slightest. Spencer hands Jon his coat and they all say goodnight, and finally Jon leaves and Spencer throws the latch on the front door.

They stand beside it for a few minutes, listening, and Spencer eventually murmurs, “I think he’s gone.”

Ryan’s body is flooded with relief, so quickly that he sags against the heavy door. “I thought he would suspect,” he admits. “I thought so many times…”

“I know,” Spencer says, and holds up his hands, teeth bared in a slightly panicked grin. Ryan thinks he’s supposed to be noting the way Spencer’s hands are shaking, and then he realizes that what he’s really looking at are his bare fingers.

Ryan sucks in a breath, dread pooling in his stomach. “Do you think he…?”

“No,” Spencer says quickly. “I mean, yes, he noticed, but he also clasped my hand and my arm a half dozen times, and he was wearing his rings. He doesn’t suspect me.”

“Thank god,” Ryan says dully, and turns his attention back towards the bedroom. “Is it safe now, do you think?”

“He’s gone,” Spencer says again. “Do you want me to bring him down?”

“I’ll do it,” Ryan tells him. He walks back to the bedroom, opens the trapdoor and climbs the ladder. He hesitates for a moment just before poking his head through into the attic, but Brendon’s not lying in wait to bite off his head or come at him with a wooden stake.

He’s still lying exactly where Ryan left him, although he’s tipped over onto his side. There’s sweat soaking through his shirt, beading on his forehead. His hair is hanging limp where it’s not plastered to his scalp.

“It’s okay, he’s gone,” Ryan says, voice hushed in response to Brendon’s palpable fear. “He just stayed for dinner.”

Brendon nods, mute, and Ryan crawls over to untie him. He has one hand on the rope when he realizes that the knot he’d tied around Brendon’s wrists is no longer in place. There’s a loose coil around his wrists, but it slithers loose at Ryan’s touch. Brendon’s hands are free.

Fear and shock freeze him in place for a long, terrifying second. Brendon twists around to look at him, mouth twisted into an unhappy line, and says, “It came undone when I fell over, I’m sorry. I swear, I haven’t moved. I didn’t do it on purpose.”

It’s probably true. They would have heard noise from the attic if Brendon had been shuffling around, and the tangle of rope looks mostly undisturbed. Even so, Ryan’s hands shake slightly when he tugs the rope completely free, when he leans in to help Brendon up off the floor. There are no weapons hidden on him anywhere that Ryan can see, but that doesn’t mean much. He can ask Spencer to check as well, tell him what happened and maybe have Brendon strip down.

Brendon moves slowly when they head down the ladder, and when they reach the bottom, Ryan sees fresh blood staining the bandage on his shoulder. Spencer notices it as well, tells Brendon, “Sit,” and puts the water over the fire to heat.

“Are you hungry?” Spencer asks as he helps Brendon remove his shirt. “We can find something for you. Jon ate most of the stew, but there’s some left.”

Brendon eyes the pot for a second, but shakes his head. Finally he asks quietly, “Does he know?”

Spencer glances at Ryan first, then back at Brendon. “No,” he says calmly. “We don’t think so. He would have said something.”

Ryan’s heart is still rabbiting, wondering if what Jon said about the squirrels was meant to be a hint, if he’d guessed and was simply biding his time to take them unawares. He doesn’t think so, but there’s always a possibility. There’s always a chance.

Brendon clasps both hands in front of him, between his knees. He’s trembling, skin glistening in the firelight as the sweat on his body cools. Spencer reaches down and gently pries one of his hands loose from their grip, stretching it out so that he can clean Brendon’s wound.

“Who was he?” Brendon asks at last.

“A friend,” Ryan says, a beat too late, because what he’d been about to say was, ‘A hunter.’

“Someone we have good reason to hide you from,” Spencer adds. He presses a cloth to Brendon’s shoulder to stop the bleeding and admits, “If he returns, we may have to do it again.”

Brendon fidgets, then goes still at a look from Spencer. “You could lock me in the cellar outside,” he says eventually. “If it’s safer for you. I’m healthier now, it would be all right.”

“No,” Ryan says without thinking. Spencer raises an eyebrow at him, silently questioning. Ryan turns his attention to Brendon instead and asks, “Why didn’t you try to get away?”

Spencer sits back on his heels. Brendon looks startled, eyes wide and dark in his pale face. “What?” he asks belatedly.

“Upstairs, just now,” Ryan clarifies, although he’s certain Brendon knows exactly what he means. “You were untied. You could have used me as a hostage, or just killed me and gone after Spence. You didn’t even try.”

Spencer doesn’t look particularly alarmed by hearing that Brendon was loose in the attic, although there’s a tilt to his head that means he and Ryan will be talking about this privately later. He just watches Brendon, who looks back and forth between them like a trapped deer until he finally stammers out an answer.

“You’ve been good to me,” he says. “I couldn’t…and you didn’t turn me in. You said I could stay here. Where else would I go?”

“We could have been bringing you down to hand you over to Jon,” Spencer points out, voice perfectly even. “How did you know we wouldn’t?”

“I…” Brendon begins, looking between them, and then says in a small voice, “I trust you.”

Ryan lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Spencer looks up at him at the sound, eyebrow raised again, but Ryan shakes his head. Spencer turns back to Brendon and ruffles his hair, which makes Brendon duck his head and flush.

“You’re a terrible werewolf,” Spencer tells him. He claps Brendon on the knee and says, “Come on, I’ll help you with your shirt.”

* * *

The days go by with such normality that it startles Ryan when Spencer says, “Bren, if you want to weed tomorrow, I think we might be able to pull enough vegetables out of the garden for an actual dish.”

“What, are you getting tired of stew?” Brendon asks mockingly, but there’s no heat in it. A second later he seems to catch on, and says, “But…”

“I pulled out the wolfsbane,” Spencer explains, holding up his dirt-stained hands as evidence.

Ryan goes still. “Spencer,” he says, low and grave. Brendon’s gone still beside him, looking down at the floor as if that will provide the illusion of privacy for this conversation.

Spencer doesn’t back down. “The only thing it’s doing right now is keeping him in the house. With us. Although he could just as easily go out through the front door, so really, all it’s doing is keeping him from being able to weed the garden and pull vegetables.”

It also makes him skittish whenever he has to open the back door, which is why Ryan suspects Spencer really pulled it up. Even so, it’s the principle of the thing. “He’s still…” he begins, but Spencer cuts him off.

“Ryan,” he says, and nods to where Brendon is sitting on the hearth with a washbasin in front of him, rinsing out Spencer’s shirt. “The dangerous werewolf is doing our laundry.”

That stops Ryan for a moment. He hadn’t realized how much freedom they’d been giving Brendon, how much he was allowed to do now. He hadn’t been tied up in weeks, ever since they’d forgotten one night and Brendon had knocked on the door to politely remind them.

“What about during the…?” Brendon asks, sitting up straighter. He still won’t meet their eyes, gaze fixed on the washbasin. He clears his throat and finishes quietly, “I’ll be dangerous then.”

“We won’t be here then,” Spencer points out, and Ryan relaxes a fraction. “Even if you came here, we’ll be at services. We won’t return until after you’ve changed back.”

Brendon nods, but he’s still tense. Ryan knows why, or at least suspects. Now that the moon is waxing instead of waning, he’s gotten twitchier by the night. Ryan catches him curled up next to the window sometimes, staring up at the moon as if they’re in a race and he can feel it gaining. They don’t talk about it, any of them, but Ryan tries on those nights to lure Brendon away from the window and closer to the fire.

“What about others?” Ryan asks suddenly. “Other werewolves?”

Spencer stops for a moment, and then shrugs. “I don’t know. I think we can handle them.” He looks over at Brendon and says, “It’s three against one, right?”

Brendon looks shocked speechless, jerking his head up to meet Spencer’s gaze, but there’s no treachery in him at all. After a second he smiles, the lines of his body loosening. “Yeah,” he agrees.

“So there we go,” Spencer affirms, slapping a dirty hand down on Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan scowls at him, but Brendon giggles nervously right after and he can’t keep it up.

“There had better be some damn fine vegetables out there in that shitty garden,” he grumbles, and Spencer crosses his eyes at him, which means they’re fine.

Spencer starts to go back out, but pauses in the doorway. “Hey, Bren,” he calls back, and Brendon’s head comes up again, but more relaxed this time. “Just remember not to sing when you’re doing the weeding, please.”

Brendon blinks, frozen mid-tune as he lays out Spencer’s shirt to dry. “I…” he stumbles awkwardly. “Sorry, does it…it bothers you? I can stop.”

Privately, Ryan isn’t sure Brendon _can_ stop, but he keeps that thought to himself. It’s cheerier somehow with Brendon’s voice following them everywhere throughout the day. Ryan’s gotten used to it.

Spencer smiles. “No, it’s just,” he says, and his smile gains teeth, which makes Ryan’s eyes narrow. “In case anyone comes up the path unexpectedly. I don’t sing while I work. And Ryan can’t sing for shit.”

Ryan squawks indignation and throws the first thing that comes to hand, which happens to be the shirt Brendon is soaking. It hits Spencer’s chest with a wet squelch, and a second later Ryan ducks a beat too late and ends up with sopping fabric plastered to his face. Dripping onto his newly-muddied shirt.

He starts to throw it at Brendon in retaliation, but Brendon’s eyes are wide and innocent, and even though he knows it’s an act, it still feels like he’d be kicking a kitten. Ryan tosses the shirt into the bucket, water slopping sluggishly over the side, and takes off after Spencer.

* * *

The night before the full moon, Ryan doesn’t even pretend to sleep. Neither does Brendon; Ryan finds him by the window, staring out at the moon. Ryan doesn’t bother with pleasantries, just sits beside him and keeps the same weary vigil. “I can feel it,” Brendon whispers, skin pale and cold, and they don’t speak again until Spencer finds them at dawn.

Brendon doesn’t broach the subject until the afternoon, but when he does it’s with clammy hands, twisting one of Spencer’s old shirts between his fingers, so Ryan guesses he’s been thinking about it for a while. “You should lock me in the cellar,” he says. “If you don’t mind me staying here. I’ll move everything out of it myself, and back in tomorrow.”

Spencer’s the one to speak, taking Brendon’s cue for a discussion and sitting down to address him. “You could hurt yourself in there,” he reasons. “Trapped, caged in, you might panic.”

Brendon drops his gaze and says quietly, “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Ryan finally sits as well, putting the buzzing thoughts of the day out of his mind to concentrate on the coming night. “There won’t be anyone out,” he points out. “They’ll all be at services.”

Brendon’s eyes flash, and then he bottles the emotion up just as quickly, answering with a remarkably even tone, “I wasn’t.”

Ryan had meant to ask, but it seems a thoughtless thing to bring up. It could have been anything; a prank, a moment of forgetfulness, an errand, willful disobedience. One moment and Brendon’s life was forever changed.

“There are others, too,” Brendon presses on. “People who are sick, or hunters. It happens.”

He has a point. Spencer knows it, too, Ryan can tell by his expression. “There’s also at least one hunter after you,” Spencer adds. “Keeping you out of sight might be better for everyone.”

That sword cuts both ways, though. Jon knows there was a wolf near here during the last full moon. If he suspects anything; if he hears a noise and checks the cellar; if he becomes wounded or even hungry and decides to help himself to their stores and make reparations later…there are a dozen ways for Brendon to die in a heartbeat, while Spencer and Ryan are too far away to help him.

“We should find some way to keep him back,” Ryan says abruptly out loud, and both Spencer and Brendon turn to look at him. “In case Jon comes too close and hears a noise.”

“We should see about keeping any others away as well,” Spencer says grimly. “I don’t know how, but if they sense him in the cellar somehow, there could be trouble.”

“I don’t want a fight,” Brendon says quickly.

Spencer favors him with a belittling look. “Brendon,” he says. “Look at you. It wouldn’t be a fight, it would be a massacre.”

Brendon folds his arms over his chest and looks worried. Ryan scoots a little closer without thinking, and then realizes he’s attempting to comfort a werewolf. Still, he thinks, glancing sideways at Brendon’s bitten-raw lips, this particular werewolf looks like he could well afford the comfort.

“I’m feeling better,” Brendon offers timidly. Spencer snorts. Ryan supposes he’s thinking less of the healing gunshot wound, and more of the fact that Brendon is not only on the small side, he also hasn’t gone feral and is probably nowhere near as dangerous as the others.

Yet, Ryan reminds himself. He hasn’t gone feral _yet_.

“We should get going soon,” he says out loud, since no one else is speaking and it looks like the conversation has reached an end. “Spencer and me. We have to make it down to the village before nightfall.”

Spencer nods, but it’s still a long moment before any of them move. When they do, it’s Brendon who starts it, cracking his neck and startling them both. “Let’s do this,” he says, and Ryan’s slightly amazed that there’s not even the smallest waver in his tone.

They move most of the stores out of the pantry in remarkably short time, all pitching in despite Brendon’s protests that he can do the work. The sun is beginning to sink, which means all of them really do have to work together in order to beat the rising moon and get Brendon secured.

Finally there’s nothing left to do but leave, and Ryan still hesitates, standing in the cold, damp cellar with Brendon waiting dark-eyed in front of him. It smells of the dank down here, packed earth and musty cobwebs, and Ryan wishes they had more to offer than a dirt floor and a barred door.

“We could bring down a blanket,” he offers.

Brendon cracks a smile, although it’s tense at the edges, brittle with nerves and anticipation of the inevitable. “I’d just rip it to shreds,” he points out.

Ryan doesn’t like thinking of Brendon that way, wishes he wouldn’t say ‘I’ as if he’ll be the one consciously growling and snarling, looking to kill and maim and poison in a few short hours. “Maybe it won’t happen, with you down here,” he says. “Away from the moon.” It’s not as if any of them know how this works, not really. It’s not as if there isn’t a chance.

Brendon tries to smile again, but it’s wan. “Maybe,” he says. “I’d rather not take the chance. Tie me up?” He kneels on the floor and holds his wrists together, looking up at Ryan with more trust than Ryan is truly comfortable with.

Ryan has the rope, coiled neatly on the floor where they’d dropped it earlier during the preparations. He’d rather Spencer did this, trusts Spencer’s hand more than his own, but he manages the first few knots without his hands shaking and it seems simple from there. Brendon holds perfectly still, lets him loop the rope around wrists and ankles and even one length across his throat to keep him from struggling. It might end up choking him, but Ryan hopes he’ll stop fighting before that happens. He trusts Brendon’s – the wolf’s – instincts to keep him alive.

Spencer calls for him above, signaling that they really need to be going. Ryan hesitates with his hand hovering over the final knot, unsure of what to do. Finally he rests his hand on Brendon’s cheek, feeling the warmth of skin and blood and bone. “You’re not like the others,” he says. “You’re not like them.”

Brendon just watches him with wide dark eyes, and Ryan finally pulls himself away and out of the cellar.

Spencer’s waiting for him next to the cellar door, dressed for services and perfectly groomed. Ryan brushes haphazardly at the dirt clinging to his trouser legs from where he knelt on the floor to tie the knots.

“All set?” Spencer asks. He’s shut the door now, and set the heavy wooden bar in place over the braces just in case.

Ryan takes one more look at the cellar, up at the first faint hint of the moon, and forces himself to stop thinking of Brendon. “Yes.”

* * *

Services seem to take forever, as they always do, but this time it’s because Ryan can’t tear his thoughts away from Brendon, how he’s managing in the cellar and whether they’ve been discovered. If they have, Brendon will already be dead, which isn’t something Ryan is ready to face up to.

Spencer is giving little away with his expression, but Ryan can tell he’s troubled by the way their eyes catch; by the way Spencer stumbles through the first few words of each call and response as if he’d forgotten where they were.

Ryan says the words along with everyone else in the village, and tries not to feel too much like a hypocrite. It’s not that he cares what these people think, not really, but it’s still hard to repeat words about protection for the people and death to their enemies without thinking of Brendon, small and frightened and curled up on the dirt floor of the cellar.

Time stretches on endlessly, but finally they’re all released, as the first gray rays of the sun creep over the horizon and through the windows. Ryan can hardly wait to be gone, but he forces himself to make brief but polite conversation with a few people from the village, holding Spencer back at his side. The last thing they need right now is for someone to become suspicious and follow them. They don’t know what shape Brendon will be in when they return.

At last they’re on their way, heading away from the village and towards the forest. Ryan hates himself for asking, “Do you think…?” but Spencer doesn’t take him down for it, just says, “I don’t know,” and keeps walking.

When they reach the cottage everything looks normal, which is a relief. No broken windows, the door securely shut, the garden full of plants stretching up in orderly rows towards the weak sunlight. Then they turn the corner and Ryan’s heart drops.

The cellar door stands open, the bar splintered and broken on the ground. Spencer breaks into a jog as soon as he sees it, while Ryan stands numbly in place. “They found him,” Ryan says. Despite thinking of the many scenarios in which this could happen, he hadn’t actually believed that it might.

“No,” Spencer says, jolting Ryan out of his despair. “He broke out, no one else came in. There’s a chance no one has noticed this. Look, the door’s been scratched up from the inside.”

Ryan investigates reluctantly, tracing his fingers over the deep grooves clawed into the heavy wood. Spencer hesitates before he goes down into the cellar, but when he returns it’s with nothing more than a frayed length of rope.

“He chewed through it,” Spencer guesses, tossing the rope back down into the cellar. He throws the broken pieces of the bar down after it, and shuts the cellar doors with an echo of finality. “A badger got inside,” he says, turning to Ryan and wiping his hands off on his pants. “That’s what made the scratches. It was mad as hell when it got out. I’ll cut a new bar, but if anyone asks before then, the wood had gone rotten and it broke by accident.”

Ryan stares blankly at him, and then realizes they’re lying now. They have to lie.

“Do you think he’s still out there?” he asks, and Spencer hesitates, knowing as well as Ryan what the chances are that he’ll make it back. It’s possible, of course, once sense returns and Brendon figures out where in the forest he is, but then he has to survive the others for long enough to make it back.

“Maybe we should go back to the village later today,” Spencer says quietly, and Ryan blinks twice before catching on to his meaning. They’re going to go back and see whether the hunters have brought in anything. Anything that looks like it might have been Brendon.

They’re still standing there when a crack rings out from the forest, echoing around them and startling the birds in a noisy exodus from the trees. Ryan stares at Spencer, shock making his heart pound, and they both think the same thing at the same time.

Spencer starts running. Ryan reaches out after him, ready to warn him of the dangers of the forest and the penalty should they be caught and the fact that there’s not much they can do right now, not against a hunter, but Spencer isn’t staying to listen. Ryan finds he really doesn’t want to say any of those things anyway, and starts after him.

It’s impossible to judge where the shot originated from, but Spencer knows the forest well, and he’s guiding them through on one of the easier trails. There’s a clearing up ahead, and a crumpled heap that Ryan knows in his bones is Brendon. He runs faster.

Brendon is naked and shivering, but not bleeding anywhere, so the shot wasn’t for him. He catches sight of them as Spencer first breaks into the clearing, and holds up a hand as if to ward them off. Ryan slows, his strides tangled in confusion, but Spencer doesn’t hesitate. He keeps running, and that’s when Ryan sees Jon.

The first shot might have been for Brendon and missed, or it might have been for something else, but this one is aimed at Brendon’s heart. Jon is taking his time – Brendon isn’t going anywhere – and he hasn’t seen them yet. Spencer will never reach Brendon in time.

Ryan stumbles to a halt and yells, “No!” with as much force as he can put behind it. Jon startles, the barrel dropping a few inches as he turns around, and Spencer sprints to Brendon’s side, putting himself between Brendon and Jon. Ryan’s there a few seconds later, holding his side and wheezing, but unflinching when Jon brings the gun to bear again.

Jon studies them, disheveled and panting, then looks past Spencer to Brendon curled terrified on the ground. Finally he asks, “Who was he?”

“Jon, please,” Spencer says, not answering the question. “Let’s go back to the house and talk about this. Please.”

Jon has always had a soft spot for Spencer, but Ryan doesn’t know whether that will be enough this time. He knows how Jon feels about werewolves, knows hunting is more of a personal vendetta than an occupation. He’s brought back far more corpses in the past year than any other hunter, despite his youth.

He’s never, to Ryan’s knowledge, killed one in human form, however. Ryan clings to that, hoping that Brendon’s deer-eyes and small, vulnerable frame will make a difference. It’s all they have.

Jon finally lowers the gun and says, “All right. Let’s talk.”


	2. Chapter 2

“His name is Brendon,” Ryan offers in the silence that follows. Jon has his attention split; part of it on Ryan, and another part on Spencer, but most of it is on the werewolf half-hidden behind Spencer’s frame. Spencer has his legs spread and arms crossed, a stance that visibly dares Jon to try anything. Jon’s finger itches against the trigger anyway.

One bullet is all it would take. He could get past Spencer easily enough, he thinks, and Ryan won’t be able to move fast enough to interfere. They’ll be angry at him, but it will pass. It would be worth it. That one shot, properly aimed, is a little girl that will get to live to see her wedding day. It’s a family that won’t starve after losing their father or mother. It’s a grandmother dying in her bed peacefully rather than being ripped apart by a savage animal. This werewolf is young, and looks healthy. It could be more than just one of those; he could be saving dozens of lives with just this one shot.

He doesn’t shoot.

“Was Brendon,” he corrects, finally sparing a brief glance at Ryan. Ryan looks blank until Jon repeats, “His name _was_ Brendon.”

“Is,” Spencer says stubbornly. He still hasn’t moved, and neither has the werewolf. Jon keeps watching that one. He might be waiting for an opportunity, and they haven’t offered him much of one right now, trapped in an open clearing with Jon’s gun still ready in his hand.

“How long?” Jon asks, dropping the debate on the werewolf’s human status.

Ryan still looks blank, but Spencer catches his meaning quickly enough. “A month. I found him in the forest after the last full moon.”

The werewolf flinches a little at that, but doesn’t speak. Jon wonders if he’s forgotten language, or if he’s just too afraid to speak. “And you’ve been letting him roam loose?” he asks, without taking his eyes off of the wolf.

Ryan inches forward, still uncertain but more confident now that the tension has lessened. “He’s been staying with us,” he says flat out, and Jon wants to kick the dirt and curse. “He hasn’t done us any harm.”

“Yet,” Jon bites out, and the werewolf flinches again. “How long do you really believe that will last?”

“He’s not feral,” Spencer says, his voice calm and even although Jon can hear the slightest shake. “He’s not like the others, he isn’t an animal. He’s…”

“ _Yet,_ ” Jon growls again, shutting Spencer up mid-sentence. He forces himself to breathe more slowly, to stay under control. “He’s what, newly-turned? A moon or two? They all turn, Spencer. They all become animals.”

“Not Brendon,” Spencer says, but he sounds unsure. Sadly, it only makes Jon more tired to hear the note of doubt. He’s been up for nearly a full day now, he needs to rest. His temper and his patience are on edge.

He can’t leave them now, though. Not with a werewolf, and especially not with one who might be starting to realize that he has nothing left to lose.

“Go back to the house,” he says quietly. “I know what I’m doing. Trust me. You don’t want to see this.”

Truth be told, he doesn’t want to do it. Werewolf or not, right now the thing in front of him looks like a young human man. The idea of putting a bullet between his eyes and watching him bleed out onto the forest floor leaves Jon heartsick.

It has to be done, though, because it’s not just any life he’ll be saving by killing this one, but the lives of his friends. Just like the werewolves who return to their old houses, following the memory of food and warmth, this one will undoubtedly seek Ryan and Spencer as soon as his instincts clamor for food and shelter. Jon can’t let that happen.

Spencer’s wavering. Jon can see it in the lines of his body, in the way his shoulders are beginning to slump. Ryan’s harder to read, but Jon thinks he’ll follow Spencer. He hopes it’s soon. He only wants to get this over with.

“Go on,” Jon says again gently. “I’ll be right there.”

“No,” Ryan says, and looks mildly surprised that he’s spoken. He stands by it, though, straightening up.

Jon’s about to reason with him again when another voice says, “Please.”

Jon’s attention is distracted, but he knows where the voice came from even before he looks. The werewolf is uncurling from its place on the ground, standing awkwardly with its hands cupped in front of it to keep something of its modesty. It seems to realize it’s a lost cause after only a few seconds, and finally drops its hands to its sides and stands up straight, pretending not to notice the flush staining its chest and throat in the early light.

“I don’t want to be like them,” it says. “I don’t want to be a werewolf. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Jon’s heart aches, heavy. He’d hoped that it wouldn’t come to this. It’s hard to shoot something that looks like a man, but harder still when that man starts pleading for his life.

“No one does,” he says, with honest regret. “But what’s done is done.” He has the gun up again, raising it slowly and taking aim. He still doesn’t want to do this with Ryan and Spencer watching, but waiting longer is just drawing out the werewolf’s inevitable death. He wants to put it out of its misery so that it doesn’t spend another five minutes shaking with fear.

“Please,” it begs, and Jon’s shaking his head sadly when Spencer steps forward and puts a hand over the barrel of Jon’s gun.

“Not here,” Spencer says. His eyes are clear blue, fixed on Jon’s and unflinching. “Not like this.”

Jon waits for another drawn-out second before he blows out a breath and lowers his gun. “Fine,” he says. “But we’re securing him tonight. We’ll talk about this again after we’ve all gotten some sleep.”

It’s not what he wants to do, but it’s the best available option. He does need to sleep, and Spencer and Ryan look to be worn equally thin. He can spend a few hours at their place and let them all catch up with their rest.

And if the werewolf happens to meet its end before Ryan and Spencer wake up, well. Sometimes it’s easier to ask forgiveness.

* * *

They put Jon on the hearth in front of the fire, which is perfect, because it means he can hear when Spencer and Ryan’s voices drop off from the other room, the low drone of conversation falling silent not long after the sun rises. It also means he can reach the door without having to slip past any sleeping bodies.

They’ve locked the werewolf in the cellar, borrowing a heavy fire poker to bar the door and tying him securely to one of the rings in the wall used for hanging dried meat. Jon had insisted, and the werewolf, surprisingly, had been the one to acquiesce and reassure the others.

It still leaves Jon uneasy, not knowing the werewolf’s motivation, but he thinks they may all have simply been ready for a truce. And for sleep, although Jon’s rest will have to wait a short while longer. The sooner this is finished, the better.

He shuts the door to the cottage quietly behind him and makes his way to the cellar. The poker is wedged in tightly, but Jon manages to pry it loose without making too much noise. There’s not much the werewolf will be able to do, secured as he is, but Jon would still prefer that he simply never wake up. It seems kinder.

He creeps down the steps slowly, rifle in hand. When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he’s surprised and disappointed to see bright eyes in the dim light, watching his descent.

“Can’t sleep?” Jon asks, resting the rifle over his shoulder as he pauses by the stairs. His eyes rove alertly over the werewolf’s body, his position. He still looks to be tied, and the rope is pulled taut through the iron hook. There’s not much hidden, either. He’s still naked, crouched down and filthy from his nocturnal roaming.

“I was waiting for you,” the werewolf says softly. “I thought you might come.”

Jon’s surprised again, but he takes care not to let too much of it show. “It might have been better if you’d been asleep,” he comments, keeping his voice even. He doesn’t need to sound threatening; they both know what’s going to happen here.

“I thought I might have a better chance of changing your mind if I was awake,” the werewolf tells him, and Jon tenses only a little, the muscles in his back pulling between his shoulder blades, at the base of his skull. “I could at least try to convince you.”

Jon shakes his head. “I wish you hadn’t,” he says simply. His heart is heavy enough, doing this. He doesn’t need the added burden of fruitless pleas. A thought occurs to him then, as he swings his rifle down off his shoulder. “If you knew, why did you agree to be put down here? You had to have known that they wouldn’t hear me leave to come out here.”

The werewolf swallows, his eyes flickering down to the rifle as if unable to resist. “I didn’t want them to have to see it,” he says quietly. “If you weren’t convinced.”

That gives Jon another moment of pause, but he shakes his head ruefully. This thing might be mostly human now, he might be, but that won’t last. They all turn feral in the end, and then they kill. Jon can’t take the chance. “You and I feel the same about that, then,” he says.

He wants to make it quick, take the shot and let this end for both of them, but the werewolf keeps talking, words spilling quickly over full lips as he rushes to get them out. “Please,” he begs. “Give me a chance. Keep me under lock and key, put me in the cellar, whatever you want. Just don’t…” The sound chokes, swallowed before he recovers. “Please let me live.”

Jon looks hard at what once used to be a boy, probably no older than himself. He’s pretty, Jon thinks; maybe not traditionally, but his features are strong with personality, and his mouth is full and ripe even with the way his lips are pressed together. He raises the rifle and aims between the wide eyes, which stare at him with desperation before finally fluttering closed in surrender.

He hesitates for a moment only, but it’s enough for the boy’s lips to move, forming a near-silent, “Please.”

Jon wavers for another second, and then drops his rifle. He’s disgusted with himself for the weakness, eaten up by guilt at the lives this could cost them later, when the tally is balanced, but he can’t do this. He can’t shoot a man in cold blood, not one pleading for his life. He’s not an animal, and he has no proof that this particular werewolf has yet had the chance to be deliberately cruel.

“One month,” Jon says, his voice rough, and the boy’s eyes fly open in shock. “You stay with me for a month, and if I see any change, I turn you over to another hunter and let him shoot you.”

“Yes,” the boy says eagerly, scrambling to his knees, hope lighting his eyes. “I swear.”

“Fine,” Jon says, and rubs the headache lodging right between his eyebrows. He’s already regretting this, but the decision has been made, now. Jon isn’t a man to go back on his word. “I’ll tell Ryan and Spencer this evening.”

* * *

Spencer and Ryan aren’t entirely pleased with Jon’s bargain, but Brendon talks them into it, his voice low and even. Jon can tell that Brendon himself still doesn’t trust him, which is hardly unexpected, but he’s going along with this regardless. Jon doesn’t know whether that makes him incredibly brave, or incredibly foolish.

They stay until the sun begins to set, and then Jon stands and jerks his head towards the door. “Time to go, the daylight will be gone soon.”

Brendon blinks at him, caught off-guard, and finally says uncertainly, “I’m not going to turn again. I mean, I don’t think I am.”

Jon laughs, a rusty sound that’s nowhere near as warm as usual. “I’m not worried about that. I’d just prefer not to break my neck on the trail taking you back in the dark.”

Brendon flushes, a very slight stain on his skin, and stands up. “Thank you for taking me in,” he says quietly, and Jon puts his coat on while Brendon makes the rest of his farewells. It takes a while; the boys in the cottage by the woods seem to have grown fond of their wild pet.

“Brendon,” Jon says finally, and Brendon breaks away reluctantly and joins him by the door. Jon hadn’t wanted to use his old name, hadn’t wanted to humanize him any more than necessary, but Spencer and Ryan have been pushing him all night, saying, “Brendon usually helps with…” and “Brendon, would you…?” and “Thanks, Brendon,” until it lodged itself in Jon’s brain and refused to be shifted. Jon’s sure they did it on purpose, but he’s more amused by it than annoyed. Spencer and Ryan are like angry mother bears with a cub.

It’s not until Brendon joins him at the door that he realizes his first problem. Keeping Brendon hidden is no problem, not the way his cabin is built, but getting him in is another matter. He considers the distance and rolls out his shoulders. “How good are you at playing dead?” he asks.

Brendon eyes him warily, body tense. “Why?” he asks. Jon can practically smell the fear coming off of him, and he almost wants to laugh. No one’s ever been afraid of him before.

“I need to get you in somehow,” he points out. A kill made outside of the full moon is rarer, and this will be his first, but it’s certainly not unheard of. It’s easy enough to tell a werewolf in any form. And if Spencer and Ryan hadn’t been there to intervene this morning, this is exactly how he would have taken Brendon’s body back to the village.

Brendon glances at Spencer and Ryan before looking back to him and nodding. “All right,” he says, swallowing. “What do I do?”

Jon does laugh at that, a chuckle that surprises him. “Not a whole lot,” he says. “Just hang and try not to squirm, or I’ll probably drop you.”

Brendon nods, and moves close enough for Jon to get a grip on his arm, to sling Brendon over his shoulder. It’s not the best plan he’s ever come up with, but it will serve.

Brendon’s not exactly as light as a feather, but it could be worse. Jon nods to Ryan and Spencer, slings his rifle over his shoulder along with Brendon, and sets out for the village. It’s a long walk, longer still with a burden, but Jon does his best to ignore the discomfort. He’s done this with thick-furred corpses over his shoulders as well, and Brendon is both lighter and a good deal better smelling. He smells like soap, actually, the lavender and heather sort that Ryan uses because he’s really a village maiden, and his skin is warm beneath Jon’s palm. True to his word, he hangs limp and doesn’t struggle as Jon walks, even over the rougher patches of terrain.

Once they get closer to the village, the sound of voices calling out makes Brendon tense. Jon squeezes his leg in warning, but Brendon’s muscles are knotted against him, and the smell of fear is back in force, along with the damp touch of sweat. Jon walks along a little further before he starts whistling, a folk song that everyone around here knows the words to. For a while it has no effect, but by the second verse, Brendon is slowly relaxing again, his body swaying lifelessly with Jon’s strides.

No one is paying him too much attention. All of the other hunters will have returned by now as well, with their kills or their rifles still loaded and waiting for the next moon, and Jon carrying this sort of burden isn’t exactly an unfamiliar sight. Even so, a few of the women stop what they’re doing to watch him, small traces of sympathy in their eyes for one having died so young, and the kids are fascinated as always, halting their games and lining the street to watch him pass.

Two of them burst from a nearby house, shrieking and laughing, bare feet slapping against the dirt. Jon feels Brendon jerk instinctively and start to slide, and only covers by swinging around and readjusting his grip, clucking his tongue at the miscreants. He bites down on his tongue to keep from cursing, and digs his nails warningly into the cloth covering Brendon’s leg.

Brendon obligingly remains still after that, but it’s still none too soon before Jon reaches his cabin and can close the door behind him, dumping Brendon onto the floor. His back is aching, shoulders on fire from the long walk with his burden. There’s still one thing he has to do, though, before he can rest.

“Stay inside,” he warns, grabbing the shovel from beside the door and heading back out. Brendon stays where he is, staring up from the floor as Jon closes the door behind him. It’s possible he’ll try something in Jon’s absence, but unlikely. He’s in a much worse position here than he had been at Spencer and Ryan’s cottage next to the woods. Jon lives in the village; they’re surrounded by people, many of them hunters. Any attempt to flee will be short-lived at best.

It doesn’t take much effort to turn over enough sod from the yard to suit his purpose. The fire-pit is already prepared against the event of a successful full moon hunt, and the rough burlap sacks he shakes open are quickly full enough to suit his purposes.

Getting the sacks to the pyre is awkward, but he manages, wrapping the whole mess in a tattered blanket like a shroud. The strangeness will be forgiven by the fact that he’s brought home a boy, not wolf; people won’t find it unusual that he doesn’t want to watch a human body burn to ashes. This is all precaution, regardless; for the most part, all anyone will see is the thick plume of smoke rising from behind his cabin.

He sets the sacks alight, stepping back to make sure the whole mess catches before he turns away. His cabin is dark, night having crept in while he was at work, and not much more than a shadow looming over the yard, lit by the dancing flames. Brendon, he notes, hasn’t lit any lamps.

It could be because he’s planning an ambush, but Jon still finds that hard to believe. More likely he’s simply doing as told, staying right where Jon put him and waiting for him to return.

He is, waiting right inside the door, still on the floor. Jon shuts the door behind him, watching Brendon’s eyes flick to the fire behind him and back again, and smiles faintly in spite of himself. He wonders if Brendon still expects Jon to kill him, if he’s waiting for it. Jon wouldn’t blame him if he did.

Jon sets the shovel back down, leans on the handle and asks mildly, “Dinner?”

* * *

Brendon’s hesitant when Jon clears up from dinner, but Jon supposes that’s because neither of them know quite what he’s going to be doing here. Sleeping arrangements will be simple enough; Jon has no intention of letting Brendon go unfettered while he’s asleep, and the best place to keep him is tied up in Jon’s own room, where it will be harder for him to slip out unnoticed.

Jon decides to start there and figure out the rest in the morning. Then he asks himself bitterly what he’s even thinking with this. He knows werewolves, he knows firsthand how dangerous they can be. He’s practically pulling his shirt collar out of the way so this one can rip out his throat.

This one, he notices, is cradling his arm oddly as he stands to follow Jon into the small room where he sleeps. Jon watches him covertly as he uncoils the thick knot of rope he’d brought in from beside the door. When he pulls Brendon’s arms behind his back, he’s not surprised by the flinch.

“What happened?” he asks, pausing but not releasing. Not yet.

Brendon moves awkwardly, trying to get away from him but probably without even realizing what he’s doing. Jon holds him fast, and Brendon stops squirming after only a moment, as if he’s just now remembered who’s restraining him and why. “It’s nothing,” he says. “An accident.”

Jon lifts Brendon’s arms up over his head and releases them, only to pull his shirt off. There’s a makeshift bandage on Brendon’s shoulder, and he knows without having to ask that this is Spencer and Ryan’s handiwork. When he pulls out his belt knife to cut through, Brendon makes a noise in protest and tries to shrink away before Jon stops him again. Jon doesn’t think it’s his investigation that Brendon’s objecting to so much as the removal of something Spencer and Ryan did for him, which almost has Jon smiling tightly at how skewed his priorities are.

The wound is healing cleanly, which Jon thinks is a minor miracle until he realizes why. Cauterized, burned by silver. He knows exactly what caused this.

“So you’re the one,” he says quietly. Brendon flinches away with a soft sound, but aborts the movement when Jon’s hand tightens on his injured shoulder.

Jon remembers him now, although he didn’t look like he does now. Dripping saliva from snarling, angry teeth, bristled fur spiking out from raised hackles when he’d spotted Jon and crouched to leap. An animal.

Jon doesn’t realize his grip has tightened until Brendon makes another small noise of pain. Jon slowly releases him, eyes still fixed on the telltale mark made by his bullet, now striped with red where Jon’s fingers were pressing into the skin. He gets up from the floor, leaving Brendon where he is, and crosses to pick up the pistol he keeps in his bedside table.

Brendon watches him slide the bullet in. It’s the same one Jon had shot him with before, melted down and recast. Silver is too precious to waste with missed shots. Jon had gone back in the morning and found it, covered in the dried blood of a werewolf that had somehow gotten lucky and survived. The one that got away.

Jon doesn’t look up, but he can feel Brendon’s eyes on him when the cylinder clicks shut. It takes him a while, but finally Brendon asks, “Are you going to kill me?”

Jon weighs the pistol in his hand, cold and heavy. He turns it over and runs his thumb over the detail work on the grip. “I haven’t decided yet,” he says finally. Brendon doesn’t reply.

He lays the pistol down on his pillow after another moment of consideration, and walks around the bed to finish securing Brendon’s arms. Brendon doesn’t flinch this time, but his arm is still stiff, the muscle pulling awkwardly when Jon twists his arms behind his back. It gives Jon a moment of pause, and he changes his grip, letting go of Brendon’s wrists to dig his thumbs into the tense muscle bunching around the wound.

Brendon doesn’t make a sound, holding carefully still beneath Jon’s hands. He doesn’t relax much, but Jon keeps working on the knot of muscle until he’s satisfied that Brendon won’t wake up in agony from sleeping with his arms twisted behind his back on the hard wood floor. It’s not that he cares, or that he’s decided not to kill Brendon yet, because he hasn’t. But there’s a difference between torturing a rabid dog and simply putting it down. Jon has never been that cruel.

He ties a simple, secure knot to immobilize Brendon’s wrists and another to shackle him to the bedpost. It won’t be comfortable, but he’ll be able to sleep, and he won’t be able to get anywhere near Jon without a lot of trouble. Jon’s a light sleeper; he doesn’t think Brendon will try anything that Jon won’t be able to catch him at.

He changes for bed, conscious of Brendon’s eyes on him the entire time, tracking his movements. He looks far too much like a scared kid right now for Jon’s comfort, and the presence of the pistol on his pillow leaves him feeling unsettled rather than steady. Brendon’s eyes are too big and his skin is too pale, and Jon hasn’t slept enough to think about this tonight.

He climbs into bed and slides the pistol underneath his pillow, dousing the light to throw the room into darkness. It’s silent for a long time, although Jon knows neither of them are close to sleep, and finally Brendon asks softly, “You’re not going to kill me?”

The barrel of the pistol is brushing one of his fingers, cold and hard. Jon closes his eyes and says, “Not tonight.”

* * *

Jon wakes the next morning with the awareness that someone is watching him. He remembers Brendon a split-second later, and relaxes slightly, although his hand still curls slowly around the handle of the pistol beneath his pillow. He opens his eyes to find Brendon curled up on the floor, motionless, eyes fixed on Jon’s. In the soft light of morning he looks even more human, pale skin and dark hair and bruised eyes.

Jon clears his throat and says, “Morning.”

Brendon blinks slowly, still not moving. Jon stares back at him for a few seconds, then throws back the blanket and sits up to start the day. Brendon’s eyes track him as he crosses the room and gets dressed, rubbing a hand across his chin to check whether his beard needs to be trimmed. Jon pulls the pistol out from under his pillow and weighs it in his hand for a moment before holding it up in plain sight and opening the cylinder. The bullet falls out into his palm, and Jon holds that up, too, makes sure Brendon gets a good look at it before he sets both gun and bullet down on the bedside table.

He unties Brendon slowly, working the knots free, and sees Brendon roll out his shoulder as he sits up. “How’s that feeling?” Jon asks, motioning with his chin to the healing wound.

“It’s fine,” Brendon says. He keeps sitting there, and Jon keeps standing over him, and finally Brendon asks, “Are you just going to leave that there?”

Jon furrows his brow for a moment, confused, and then he realizes what Brendon means. “It’s a show of good faith,” he says, although they have nothing of the sort between them and they both know it. Then he realizes what Brendon’s really asking, and shakes his head. “It’s silver,” he says. “You can’t touch it.”

“I can,” Brendon answers evenly. His gaze hasn’t flickered once; not to the gun on the bedside table, not to the open bedroom door. His eyes are on Jon when he says, “It would just burn me.”

It would do more than that, Jon thinks. For Brendon to shoot him with that gun, he’d have to pick the bullet up and get it into the cylinder, which would take a few seconds at the very least. Long enough for Brendon’s skin to blister and bubble, probably even bleed. Maybe even for the bullet to fuse to his fingers and rip the skin off along with it. It’s not something Jon is particularly concerned about.

Then again, he realizes, Brendon is telling him this for a reason. Brendon is saying he would do it, that he thinks he _could_ do it, and Jon doesn’t know whether to doubt him or not. That kind of bravery is both insane and terrifying.

Jon says simply, “I’m not worried about it.” Then he adds, falsely casual, “You want breakfast?”

As a mood-lightener, it works reasonably well. Brendon is still edgy, but eating seems to take some of his wariness away, and instead of keeping his eyes fixed on Jon’s every move, he settles for sneaking peeks out from under his hair after every few bites.

It keeps Jon amused, which is at least some distraction from the voice in his head asking _what the hell are you going to do now?_ He tries not to think of Brendon as anything besides dangerous, but it’s difficult, especially when Brendon spends several minutes chasing the last kernel of corn around his bowl and shooting quick glances at Jon to see if he’s watching. He’s starting to understand why Ryan and Spencer were so fiercely protective.

Brendon is still a werewolf, though. Big brown eyes aside, he’s a killer waiting to get loose, and every time Jon almost cracks a smile, he remembers that and it sobers him like a stone dropping into his belly.

He turns away to make tea, something to distract him, and it’s not until he shakes the leaves out into his cup that he remembers the other tin sitting on the shelf. It’s a myth, more than anything, an old wives’ tale, but that’s probably because only a handful of people have ever sat down with a suspected werewolf for tea. There are less subtle ways of discovering the truth than what Jon’s currently considering.

It’s not that he doesn’t already know Brendon’s a werewolf. This would serve a different purpose, become a different kind of test. The herb lore says that if a savage werewolf consumes wolfsbane, it will die. Jon doesn’t know whether it’s true, or how much it would take, but he finds himself fingering the tin, turning the thought over and over in his mind.

If Brendon didn’t survive, Jon would have his answer. If he did, it would mean nothing, besides that the lore was wrong or the dose wasn’t strong enough. It wouldn’t mean that Brendon could be saved. No werewolf could be saved.

It doesn’t stop him from picking up the tin. “Tea?” he asks, and is surprised at how mild his own voice sounds, in light of what he’s doing. He’d promised Brendon a month.

Then again, he’d promised Tom a great deal more than that.

“Sure,” Brendon says after a brief pause, and Jon shakes leaves into another cup before adding one small spoonful of powder to each cup, the dried green flakes spilling over the tea leaves and dissolving invisibly into the hot water Jon pours in on top. The wolfsbane won’t do anything to him, and it stains the tea in both cups an identical shade.

He passes one cup to Brendon, and tries not to feel like a complete bastard. It’s worth it, he reminds himself. Whatever the result.

Brendon nods his thanks and raises the cup to his lips, but gets a strange look on his face right before his mouth touches the rim. His gaze flicks up to Jon, and it takes every iota of calm Jon has to say, “It’s not poisoned. Do you want to switch?”

Brendon hesitates. “No,” he says, but he doesn’t drink yet. Jon watches him, takes a deep drink from his own cup, and offers it silently to Brendon.

Brendon shakes his head, a quick jerk of motion, and downs his entire cup in one go, gulping it down with what looks like defiance. He lowers the cup and stares at Jon, whose stomach is already clenching in sympathy, and Jon thinks, insanely, _he knows._

For a moment, nothing happens. Then Brendon doubles over, wracked by spasms, and the cup drops from his hand to land with a metallic clang on the floor, rolling to a restless stop by Jon’s feet.

Jon moves to catch him almost without thinking, dropping his own cup and reaching for Brendon, keeping him upright with his hands under Brendon’s armpits. Brendon falls against his chest, sweat breaking out across his scalp, still convulsing weakly in Jon’s grip.

“What…?” Brendon asks, as Jon lowers him gently to the floor. Jon’s spilled tea is all over the floorboards; it soaks into the fabric of his pants when he kneels, warm and wet.

“Wolfsbane,” Jon says quietly, because he owes Brendon that. “Not much.”

The story itself sticks in his throat, a child’s tale of trickery and cleverness, outwitting the beast, because it doesn’t seem in any way related to what’s happening to them right here, now. He’d forgotten, though, that Brendon grew up human, too.

“If I live,” he whispers, sweat now soaking through Jon’s shirt where Brendon’s cheek is resting, “it means I’m still human.”

Jon swallows around the lump lodged in his throat, and doesn’t know how to say to someone that there’s no going back from this, not when that person is quite possibly dying on his floor from a poison he gave them. “It means the wolf hasn’t won,” he says instead, quoting the story, one hand against Brendon’s forehead to keep him from shaking out of Jon’s hold. “Not yet.”

“Not yet,” Brendon agrees, and goes limp.

* * *

The one thing Jon hadn’t planned on was having visitors show up at his front door, only a few hours into the afternoon. He hears the knock and curses, shoving the forgotten dishes to the side on the floor, and runs his hands quickly through his hair before opening the door. He doesn’t imagine he’s made it look much better, but it’s at least something.

When he sees who’s at the door, he nearly curses again.

Spencer looks him up and down, quirked eyebrow somehow managing to convey his awareness of Jon’s tea-stained trousers, sweat-damp shirt, and aforementioned hair in disarray. Jon combs through it again without thinking, trying to flatten it down, but gives up when Spencer merely looks amused.

Ryan’s right beside him, of course, and a half-step behind. “We’re here to see Brendon,” he says.

Jon says the first thing that comes to mind, which is, “He’s not here right now.”

Spencer’s other eyebrow arches its opinion of that statement, while Ryan replies disbelievingly, “Where else would he be?”

Spencer’s look darkens suddenly, and Jon knows he’s probably thinking the worst. He probably already had been, or fearing it at least, which is why he and Ryan are here now, knocking on Jon’s door only a day after giving him custody of their pet.

“He’s fine,” Jon assures them, without moving from the doorway. “He’s resting. Why don’t you come back tomorrow? I’ll cook dinner for all of us.” By tomorrow, he guesses, either the worst of the poison will have been flushed from Brendon’s system, or it will be too late and Jon will at least have something concrete to apologize for. If killing a werewolf is something that requires an apology.

“We’d like to see him now,” Spencer says, calm but implacable, and Jon wonders whether he suspects, or whether he just has uncannily good instincts about this sort of thing.

“He’d probably like having people he knows around,” Ryan adds, and Jon gets it, the metaphorical cloth being pulled away from his eyes. Ryan and Spencer aren’t just here to make sure that he hasn’t done anything to Brendon; they’re also here to make sure he doesn’t do anything _to_ Brendon. Just like yesterday, they’re going to call him by his name and joke with him and coax more of his personality out until Jon stops seeing him as a werewolf and starts seeing him as a man.

He bites back the glib answer of _you’re too late_ and opens the door wider instead, stepping back with a sigh. He recognizes the stubborn set to Spencer’s jaw; they aren’t going anywhere until they’ve seen Brendon.

Brendon’s across the room, under a small mountain of blankets. Jon’s made him as comfortable as he can; forcing fluids into him after Brendon’s stomach had violently rejected the wolfsbane, keeping the blankets on when Brendon tries to kick them off in the throes of fever.

He’s still shaking, even now, skin glistening with sweat and eyes rolling behind closed lids. Spencer and Ryan stand there for a moment, silent, and then Ryan asks quietly, “What did you do?”

Jon figures giving an explanation is better than waiting silently for condemnation. He doesn’t offer them anything to drink, or a seat; right now, he doesn’t think they’d accept it. He sits down instead, in the chair he’d pulled up near Brendon’s makeshift sickbed, and clears his throat. “There’s a story,” he admits. “About a little girl who has a werewolf over for tea.”

“She tricks him with the tea leaves and puts wolfsbane in the cup,” Spencer finishes. They all know the story.

“If he lives, she knows she can trust him,” Ryan says, turning his unsettlingly direct gaze on Jon. Jon should have known they’d get it right away, just like Brendon had. He nods.

“Is he going to live?” Spencer asks bluntly. Brendon twitches a little as if in answer, shivering hard enough to throw the blankets off his shoulders again. Jon stands up, tugs the blankets back into place, and turns to face them.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly.

“You think it will kill him,” Ryan says, and it sounds like an accusation even though there’s nothing in the inflection to suggest it. Maybe Jon is projecting his own guilt. Maybe Ryan is just good at accusing.

Jon shakes his head, looking back down at Brendon. “I think he’ll live,” he admits. Brendon’s already gone through the worst of it. He’s going to be weak for a while now, and he’s by no means free and clear of danger, but he hasn’t stopped fighting since he first collapsed. Jon doesn’t think he’ll lose this round.

“And then what?” Spencer asks, eyebrows raised. “Then you’ll trust him? Or then you’ll find something else to put him through as a test?”

“Didn’t you?” Jon asks, weary. He doesn’t know how Brendon spent his month with Ryan and Spencer, but he can’t imagine they welcomed him in with open arms. There has to be more to the story than that.

“No,” Ryan says, speaking up unexpectedly. He doesn’t move when Spencer turns to look at him, and doesn’t flinch from meeting Jon’s eyes. “Not like that.”

“Well, I did,” Jon says. He doesn’t have anything more to say than that, so he’s grateful when they seem to decide to leave it be. When the silence has stretched on for too long, Jon offers grudgingly, “Are you hungry? I could make something to eat.”

“That would be good,” Spencer replies politely. Jon gets the feeling Ryan might have said something else, something angry and cutting, but Ryan just turns back to look at Brendon. “We could stay the night, too,” Spencer adds, and Jon looks at him, surprised. Spencer’s gaze flicks away from Ryan to meet Jon’s, and Jon gets the impression that this isn’t an idle suggestion.

“I don’t have any more blankets,” he tells them. It’s not a refusal, exactly. If they want to stay, he won’t throw them out.

Spencer smiles tightly. “We’ll make do,” he says.

Jon doesn’t want to leave Brendon, not even for a moment, but Ryan’s settling in and Spencer’s standing guard over both of them, and the tension is knotting in Jon’s shoulders, woven around something that feels a lot like guilt. “Suit yourself,” he says, and goes out back to chop firewood.

* * *

Brendon makes it through the night, and in the morning he looks decidedly better; color in his cheeks, breathing easy, no longer shaking from fever and stomach cramps. Jon checks on him periodically throughout the night, but it’s Ryan hovering next to him in the morning when his eyes finally flutter open. He blinks a few times, confused, expression gradually clearing as he takes in his surroundings, Jon, and Spencer further back.

“Layabout,” Ryan accuses softly, and Brendon smiles.

Spencer and Ryan invite themselves to stay for another day, which Jon can’t really complain about, all things considered. He warns Spencer that they might be running short on food, but Spencer just shrugs and tells Jon to grab his rifle. Jon wants to protest, but Spencer’s already lifting Jon’s spare over his shoulder, preparing to go out. He glances back at Brendon, says, “Ryan will take care of him.”

Jon realizes that they’re both thinking about it that way, Ryan taking care of Brendon rather than Ryan being able to defend himself from Brendon alone. It’s not as if Brendon would be particularly difficult to fend off right now, regardless; he’s still weak, even though he’s scraped up the energy to sit propped up against the wall and has recovered a lot of his vigor. Jon has never seen him this animated. He’s not sure whether it’s relief at being alive, or simply his personality showing through now that’s he’s too exhausted to be on guard, but in any event, it’s a noticeable change. Brendon is bright-eyed and flushed, chattering away until Ryan and Spencer finally tell him to be quiet and rest.

He’d put the bullet in his pistol again, last night before he’d gone to bed. Brendon had been moaning, unconscious but still in pain, and some part of Jon couldn’t help thinking of him like a wounded animal, couldn’t help wondering if he should put Brendon out of his misery, since he’d been the one to cause it. He’d left it on the bedside table every time he went out to check on Brendon in the night, and when morning came, he took the bullet back out, and tried not to think too hard about it.

He lifts his rifle and follows Spencer out the door. Behind them he hears Brendon telling Ryan about something one of his brothers used to do in the summertime, the thread of the story twisting and leaping like a fish on a hook. Jon thinks Brendon must still be a little feverish; he doesn’t think Brendon would be mentioning his lost family otherwise.

He expects Spencer to say something as soon as they’re alone and out far enough to hunt, but Spencer seems content to just walk alongside him, looking for game. It puts Jon on edge at first, constantly waiting for the axe to fall, but after a while he relaxes and simply enjoys hunting with Spencer. They haven’t done this in a while now, but it’s easy enough to find the rhythm again, signaling each other and tracking the same plump bird with their rifles.

Spencer gets a rabbit, and Jon makes it a brace less than half an hour later. That will do for dinner, but on the way back they stumble on a pheasant, and Jon brings his rifle up, aims and shoots without pause for thought. Spencer’s done the same, and the cracks of their rifle retorts echo for a moment before they turn to each other, grinning. There’s only one bullet in the bird when they examine it, so far as they can see, but no way of telling who brought it down. They shake on it like men and call the venture a draw.

It’s not until they’re within sight of Jon’s cabin that Spencer says, “He’s not Tom, you know.”

Jon goes cold, stopping in place. He waits until Spencer has stopped as well, turning back to look at him, before he answers. “I never think that,” he says, with flint in his voice, hard and rough. “Not for a minute.”

To his credit, Spencer doesn’t back down. “I didn’t think you did,” he answers calmly. “I just wanted to be sure.”

Jon’s grip on the fallen rabbits is too tight; he feels something squelch sickly between his clenched fingers. “I ought to clock you for that,” he says, and even before the words are out his fingers are itching to do it, to haul back and lay a bruise on Spencer’s cheek for daring to say that out loud to him.

Spencer squares his shoulders, stance wide and strong. “So do it,” he says, and for a reckless, wild moment, Jon actually considers it. He could hit Spencer, Spencer could hit him back, they could tussle like overgrown children until they were both worn-out and dirty and things were all right again.

It wouldn’t change the fact that there’s still a werewolf in the shape of an engaging young man recovering back inside Jon’s cabin, or the fact that it’s not Tom.

Jon lets his fists unclench; takes a deep breath and lets it out again. “I don’t think either of us would want to face Ryan, after,” he says. Spencer laughs, his grin lighting up his face. Jon smiles back at him, and it feels a little frayed around the edges, but still genuine.

Spencer bumps his shoulder, and Jon takes another breath. “Let’s get back, then,” Spencer says, and Jon starts walking.

* * *

Spencer and Ryan leave in the evening, after supper. Jon almost expects them to stay another night, but they exchange some wordless conversation and Spencer nudges Ryan towards the door. “We’ll be back soon,” he says, and Jon honestly doesn’t know whether to take that as a threat or not. He doesn’t think it is, but he also sees the way Ryan squeezes Brendon’s shoulder before he leaves. They’ve gotten attached.

Brendon is muted after they leave, instantly withdrawn. It annoys Jon for no reason that he can place, besides the obvious, that Brendon still doesn’t trust him. He doesn’t have any reason to, of course, but after the bubbling, relieved enthusiasm he’d shown with Ryan and Spencer, the change is even more obvious.

“Are you ready for bed?” Jon asks when Brendon remains silent. It’s early yet, he’s not particularly tired, but Brendon is still recovering and looks worn-out already.

Brendon scratches through his hair, briefly restless, before stilling again. “I was actually thinking,” he admits hesitantly, “I could really use a bath. If it’s not too much trouble, I mean.”

Jon considers. It is a lot of trouble, actually, dragging in the tub and heating enough water to fill it, just for one bath. When he looks, though, he sees how Brendon really looks for the first time; like someone who spent the night as a wolf running through the forest, spent another locked in an underground cellar, and then sweated for two days, overcome with fever. In Brendon’s place, Jon would probably want a bath as well.

“I think we can manage that,” Jon says, and Brendon offers him his first small, grateful smile.

He sets the first pot of water to boil and hauls the heavy, cast-iron tub in from outside. It takes another three pots before the tub is even full enough to consider climbing into, and by then Jon’s worked up enough of a sweat that he thinks he might take advantage of his hard work once Brendon is finished.

Brendon tries to help, but he’s still weak, shaky on his feet after not being able to keep food down for more than a day, and the pots of water are almost heavier than the tub itself. Jon has to shake his head at himself, as he trudges in to hang the latest pot over the fire, and admit that he’s actually screwed himself over on this one.

Finally the tub is full enough for Brendon to bathe in. He sheds his clothing quickly, without being overly modest but not flaunting anything, either. He doesn’t have much to flaunt right now, regardless; Jon can count his ribs from across the room.

Brendon settles in with a quiet sigh, gives himself a moment to just enjoy the water, and then picks up the thick yellow bar of soap and starts scrubbing. The water is murky before he even finishes the first pass. Jon settles down next to the hearth, waiting for the next pot of water to heat, and picks up a half-carved block of wood and his whittling knife.

He’s got a good start on an animal when the water is finally ready; the stocky, ill-defined shape of a torso and head emerging beneath his fingers. He crosses to the tub and sees Brendon tense a little, freezing mid-motion before deliberately continuing with his bath. Jon pours the water over his feet, at the end of the tub where it can mix with the rest without burning Brendon’s skin. Brendon watches him, toes wriggling almost unconsciously in the flood of warmth, and says quietly, “Thanks.”

Jon stops pouring when there’s still some water left in the bottom, setting the pot next to the tub within Brendon’s reach. He goes back to the fire without saying anything, letting the moment be, and picks up his whittling again.

He’s just addition definition to the head, the first pointed ear emerging sharp and smooth from the blade of his knife, when Brendon pulls his attention away. “Jon,” he says, clear and surprisingly loud after the silence. He looks startled by his own voice, briefly, a flush staining the tops of his shoulders, but he clears his throat and continues. “Would you mind, ah…would you mind?” He gestures to the pot waiting beside him, and then to the soap-sticky mess of his hair. Jon sets his whittling down and stands up.

He tests the water first, making sure it isn’t still too hot, and then lifts the pot in both hands. “Tilt your head back,” he murmurs, and Brendon does, closing his eyes and turning his face up, eyelashes dark and wet against his freshly-scrubbed cheeks. Jon forgets himself for a moment, staring, feeling something uncomfortable twist at his stomach. Then he tilts the pot, water cascading over Brendon’s face and chest, rinsing away the soap in his hair, and it’s gone.

Brendon blinks his eyes open, swiping a hand through his dripping hair, and says, “Thank you.” He sounds almost shy, not meeting Jon’s eyes.

Jon says, “You’re welcome,” a low murmur, and sets the pot back down on the floor. He doesn’t move away at first, just looks down at Brendon in the tub, his knees poking out and his chest pink from the steam. Then Brendon stands, water streaming off his skin while he gropes for a cloth to dry off with, and the moment is broken.

“You can use it now, if you want,” Brendon offers, still standing shin-deep in the fouled water. Jon thinks about it, but the sun has set now, and it seems like more effort than it’s worth to dump the tub and start refilling it all over again.

“Maybe tomorrow,” he says instead. Brendon nods, stepping out onto the wood floor, and Jon sees his eyes rest on the pile of dirty, sweat-soaked clothes he’d been wearing for the past few days. Jon doesn’t blame him, looking at Brendon’s clean, pink-scrubbed skin, for not wanting to put them back on.

“Hold on,” he says, much more gently than he’d expected. “I’ll find you something.”

Brendon looks absurdly grateful, and that makes Jon’s stomach twist again, so he turns away and heads to the bedroom. He doesn’t have many clothes, and what he does have probably won’t fit Brendon. There’s another chest, though, another stack of clothes that Jon has yet to ever put on. He opens it and picks out a plain white sleeping shirt, one that he’s seen a hundred times before. It’s soft and worn in his hands, the laces hanging loose between his fingers. He drapes the shirt over his arm and shuts the trunk.

Brendon’s shivering by the time he gets back, arms wrapped around his torso. Jon gets an eyeful again, but this time it doesn’t feel as much like a punch to the gut as it did before when Brendon had his head tipped back, throat bared and vulnerable.

“Here,” he offers, holding out the shirt. “Put this on.”

Brendon dresses quickly, probably more from cold than embarrassment at his own nakedness, and then stands there and continues shivering. He’s at least looking at Jon now, the first touch of curiosity in his eyes as he fingers the cloth. “Thanks,” he says.

It’s late now, and just opening that trunk has filled Jon with weariness. “Grab those,” he says, motioning to the pile of blankets that had formed Brendon’s sickbed. “Let’s get some sleep.”

Brendon follows him into the bedroom and then pauses in the doorway, hovering. Jon doesn’t know what he’s waiting for until he sees the rope on the floor, still twisted loosely around the memory of knots. He knows what Brendon’s thinking, then, what he’s wondering. Last night he slept unfettered, in the same room as Ryan and Spencer. He was also half-delirious and mostly unconscious, of course, but that doesn’t change the facts. Jon had called the tea a test, and Brendon had passed.

He picks up the end of the rope from the floor and coils it loosely. “My bed isn’t that big,” he says. “Are you still comfortable on the floor?”

Brendon nods quickly, tossing down his armful of blankets and then dropping on top of them, burrowing in beneath the top layer for warmth. Jon watches him out of the corner of his eye as he sets the rope aside, on the other side of the bed where Brendon won’t easily be able to reach it and strangle him in his sleep. He doesn’t think Brendon has the strength right now, but he also remembers what Brendon said about the bullet, and the determination in his eyes.

He picks up the pistol from the table, spinning the cylinder once as he weighs his options. Then he thumbs the bullet in and snaps the cylinder shut. Brendon’s face is nearly hidden beneath the blankets, only his eyes peeking out above the edge, but those are dark and aware and fixed on Jon as he slides the pistol underneath his pillow for the night.

“Goodnight,” Jon says, rolling into bed. The pistol is a hard lump beneath his pillow, ready and waiting. Just in case.

After a long time, he hears Brendon’s voice echo softly, “Goodnight.”

* * *

Things are fine for the next few days, if a little tense. They spend most of the next day dragging water in so Jon can take a bath, Brendon’s strength starting to return as long as he stops every few trips to rest. The rest of the day is filled with simple chores, and the next day Ryan and Spencer are back, bringing along a loaf of fresh bread as both excuse and apology.

Jon watches Brendon with them for most of the day. Not because he’s worried – Spencer can look out for himself, and for Ryan – but because the way Brendon opens up with them fascinates him, in spite of himself. He smiles more, and even laughs, throwing his head back like he’s remembering abandon. Jon lets them draw him in a little when Spencer extends the offer, but he’s mostly content to stay back on the fringes and watch Brendon.

So things are going well, until the morning that Jon wakes up and knows, with complete certainty, that he’s alone in the room.

He stays very still, listening, but when he opens his eyes, he already knows that he won’t see Brendon on floor in front of him, sleeping or waiting for Jon to wake up. The blankets are empty, and probably cold. Jon had been tired the night before after staying up late to finish a carving, but he doesn’t know how Brendon managed to slip out undetected.

There’s a sound out in the main room of the cabin, muffled but unmistakable. Jon freezes and listens harder, but it isn’t repeated. If it’s Brendon, he’s being careful not to be too loud. That in itself gives away his intentions.

Jon slides his hand under the pillow to close around the handle of his gun. He shifts his grip when he draws it out, sitting up slowly and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His feet don’t make a sound when he pads to the bedroom door, and then out into the main cabin.

Brendon’s by the fire when Jon catches sight of him, fiddling with something over the mantel. Jon keeps his pistol trained on Brendon’s torso, right between his shoulder blades where his heart beats, and he doesn’t waver when Brendon starts to turn around.

Brendon has a tin of tea in his hands, not the one containing wolfsbane, and he smiles hesitantly when he sees Jon. Then he sees the pistol in Jon’s hand and freezes, the smile fading instantly.

“What are you doing?” Jon asks. His voice is gravelly from sleep, rusting around the edges. From the looks of it, Brendon is gathering supplies to take with him. It would be a sound move if Jon had stayed asleep, but since he hasn’t, Brendon would have been better off just making a run for it.

Brendon swallows. “I…making breakfast,” he says, his eyes flickering constantly between Jon’s face and the barrel of the gun. “I thought…you looked tired.”

Jon lets his gaze drift enough to catch sight of the pot set to boil over the stove, and the strips of meat Brendon has laid out in a pan ready to be cooked. He lowers the gun slowly, letting the tension seep gradually out of his muscles. Brendon doesn’t move.

“I thought you’d gone,” Jon tells him. It’s a poor explanation for going after someone with a loaded gun, but Jon hadn’t known, and he still can’t bring himself to trust Brendon completely, storybook test be damned.

Brendon makes a small, abortive movement, like he’d nearly shaken his head but stopped. “I didn’t know,” he whispers. The tea tin is steady in his hands, held carefully in sight.

Jon holds the gun up, keeping his movements slow, and opens the cylinder. Like he has every morning since Brendon’s arrival, he tilts the pistol and lets the silver bullet slide out into the palm of his hand. Then he goes back to his room to set the gun down and get dressed, to shake off some of the adrenaline.

When he returns, Brendon is sitting by the fire, hands clasped between his knees. The pan with meat is still waiting beside the fire, and the tea tin is back on the mantel. Jon wants to say something, to get them back to their skewed version of normal, but it sticks in his throat.

They eat in subdued silence and then go about morning chores, only the soft clink of dishes breaking the silence as Brendon slowly washes them. Jon finally gives in and turns, expelling a noisy, irritated breath. Brendon looks up at him, startled and wary, and Jon clamps down on his annoyance and forces a smile onto his face.

“Let’s find you something else to wear,” he invites. It’s the best olive branch he can come up with. Brendon’s still wearing Spencer’s clothes – or at least Jon assumes they’re Spencer’s, they look too broad across the shoulders to be Ryan’s – and they’re starting to look worn and stained around the edges, even after the scrubbing Brendon gave them a few days ago.

Jon leads the way back to the bedroom, with Brendon following behind him like a skittish, curious puppy, and opens the lid of the trunk that isn’t his. He sets aside a few items immediately; a shirt too bloodstained for Jon to ever clean, a set of pants that he remembers too well from long nights in front of the fire. There’s another shirt that he thinks would look good on Brendon, one that was usually only ever brought out on festival days, with lacing up the sides and an open collar. It jingles when he shakes it out, though, the laces ringed with tiny loops of silver.

“You can’t wear this one yet,” he says, almost an apology, as he tosses it onto the bed. “I’ll take the rings off, though, and then you can have it.” The next two shirts are plain and worn but serviceable, and he offers them both to Brendon to make his choice.

Brendon strips out of what he’s wearing without much concern for modesty, and once again Jon catches glimpses of skin, smooth and pale as Brendon stretches over to slide his trousers free of his feet. He looks away when Brendon stands back up, not letting himself dwell on anything for too long, and selects a pair of brown trousers that haven’t even been patched yet.

The shirt is fine; too large for Brendon, but not terribly long on him. He rolls up the sleeves a little and twists his lips, an expression almost too genuinely self-mocking for Jon to believe before it’s gone again. Jon hands him the trousers, but knows even before Brendon pulls them all the way up that it’s a lost cause.

“I could tie them,” Brendon says, a dubious note in his voice that Jon privately echoes. “Maybe with a belt.”

Jon doesn’t say anything to that, mainly because he’d prefer that Brendon not have easy access to anything like a strap, for a variety of reasons. A belt is a tool that could too easily be used against him, if Brendon were pushed to desperation.

They get him fixed up with a few pins instead, not a drop of silver in them, and then Brendon proves himself surprisingly handy with a needle, sitting in front of the fire in only his too-large shirt, taking in the fabric where it had gapped around his waist. “Big family,” he explains when he catches Jon watching him. “Lots of hand-me-downs.”

Jon takes the time to work the silver rings off of the festival shirt, shaking them into a can one by one as he coaxes them loose. Brendon holds out for a surprisingly long time before he finally asks the question Jon’s been waiting for, breaking the silence.

“Whose clothes am I wearing?” he asks, and when Jon looks up, Brendon’s eyes are still trained on needle and thread. He looks up a moment later, when Jon doesn’t answer. “They’re not yours,” he says, one shoulder lifted slightly as if in apology for the observation. “They haven’t been worn in a while, and that isn’t your trunk.”

Jon looks back down at the shirt in his hands, swallowing. Two more silver rings jingle against the bottom of the can before he answers, “Tom’s. He was a…a good friend of mine.”

Brendon seems to take a moment to absorb that, looking back down at his own work. “He’s gone,” Brendon says finally, and Jon guesses that’s his way of taking pity, and not saying what’s even more obvious; _he’s dead._

“The werewolves took him,” Jon says. He shakes out the shirt in his hands and stands up.

Brendon stands with him, sliding on the newly-tailored trousers, pulling them snug over his hips. His ass fills them out more than Jon had expected with the waistband drawn in, the fabric curving tight across his hips. Jon looks up and meets Brendon’s eyes.

“What happened?” Brendon asks quietly. He’s close enough that Jon can see where his bottom lip is a little shiny from worrying it between his teeth as he worked. Jon suddenly wants to lick it, and has no idea where that thought comes from. Brendon’s eyes are still watching his, somber and patient.

Jon holds out the shirt, freshly devoid of silver. “I took him back.”

Brendon looks away then, and doesn’t ask any more questions.

* * *

They don’t have any more jarring incidents over the next few days, and even settle into something like a routine. Brendon helps out with more than his fair share of chores, and Jon is eventually comfortable enough to leave him for a few hours while he does business in the village or goes out to hunt. There’s always a certain alertness under his skin when he does it, like he’s just waiting to hear a scream telling him it’s all gone wrong, but it never happens. He returns to his cabin and Brendon is unfailingly present, usually occupied with something on the stove or doing some washing.

He thinks Brendon’s starting to come out of his shell, but it’s hard to be certain when Brendon is still so jittery. Jon thinks it’s nerves still, but eventually he realizes it’s the enforced idleness. Brendon hasn’t been able to go outside for more than a week, and he can’t even look out the windows for risk of being seen. He’s cooped up in a cabin with only two rooms, and even Jon would be getting antsy under those circumstances. He knows enough now of Brendon to think it must be driving him mad.

That evening he pulls down his mandolin from the shelf and tunes it, aware of Brendon’s watchful interest from the other side of the room. He crosses to the fire and takes a seat, strumming the first chord, and when he looks up he catches Brendon’s eyes in invitation.

He hasn’t played in a while. A few times, on his own, but this brings back memories of nights spent in front of the fire until the early hours, trading melodies and verses with Tom until neither of them could sing anymore in between the yawns. His fingers still know the way, and his brain comes up with half a dozen songs before he even settles on how to start.

He just means it to be entertainment, something to get Brendon’s mind off of his confinement, but after he plays seven or eight songs, he sees how Brendon’s eyes watch his fingers on the strings, concentration focused on every individual chord.

Jon hesitates, but at this point he’s not convinced Brendon will attempt anything so brash as braining him with a mandolin, and the look in his eyes is dark and eager. “Want to try?” he offers as the last chords fade on the milkmaid’s song, and Brendon’s reaching out even before Jon ducks out from beneath the strap.

To Jon’s surprise, Brendon already knows how to play. Not only that, but he knows an entirely new variation on the song about the swan on the lake, with embellishments Jon has never heard before. He plays through a few more folk songs, one of which Jon has only heard a handful of times, each as deftly plucked as the last. There’s an air of sadness to all of them, though, even the most up-tempo tinged with melancholy.

Brendon pauses for a moment, and then launches into a melody that’s achingly familiar. Jon recognizes it, of course, but it takes him a moment to catch up with the strummed chords. It’s a song he wrote, a year or more ago, after Tom. He must have played it before, unthinking. “How do you…?” he asks, watching Brendon’s fingers hesitate on the strings before finding the next chord.

“I watched you,” Brendon says, missing one note before shaking his head and correcting. “I listened. I used to do this all the time, at festivals. With my family.”

He closes his mouth then, thin-lipped, and Jon lets it go, stretching back to listen. Brendon picks his way through most of the song until he reaches the bridge, and then he shakes his head ruefully, stilling the chord. “I could play it again,” Jon offers, without thinking about it.

Brendon’s silent for a moment, his hands absently curving around the polished wood. He looks reluctant to give it up, but after a moment he nods and passes it back, once again focusing his attention on Jon’s fingers when he picks up the song at the second chorus.

Jon plays another song after that, almost a friendly challenge, and he knows Brendon takes it in kind when he finishes and Brendon immediately puts his fingers to the same chords. This one is easier for him to catch, nothing tricky in the bridge, and when he finishes they both grin fiercely at each other at his success.

Jon looks away, not sure whether he’s that comfortable with this yet, with Brendon’s smile and his voice and his laugh ringing out when he flubs a chord beyond repair. His gaze falls on the fireplace and he sees, for the first time, the row of scratches on the side, beneath the mantel and the wolf statue Jon carved for Brendon standing guard.

He thinks at first they’re the result of an accident, but the lines are too deliberate, too neat. There’s a whole row of them, diagonal line crossing neatly over each set of four, and once he sees that, it’s obvious what purpose they serve. Brendon’s counting the days he’s been here. Counting the days until the next full moon.

Jon looks back at Brendon, but Brendon’s head is bent over the mandolin, busy picking out a melody Jon has never heard before, maybe one of his own creation. His fingers wander over the strings, drifting into something sad and wistful, something that makes Jon’s chest ache. Jon sits back and listens.

* * *

The moon starts waxing instead of waning, and now they’re counting down, not counting up. Brendon gets more jittery with every passing day, and he spends hours at the window after night falls, just staring up at the moon. Jon tries to distract himself with whittling, or both of them with music, but Brendon’s nerves are contagious and he can feel himself winding tight enough to snap.

One morning, after Brendon’s spent more than an hour in silence staring off into the distance, Jon finally exhales and grabs his rifle. “I’m going to see Ryan and Spencer,” he says. Brendon finally jerks from his reverie, startled, and looks up at him. Jon can see the sudden flare of hope, intense longing written in every line of Brendon’s body, and he knows what’s on the tip of Brendon’s tongue.

“No,” he says, because it was risky enough smuggling him down here, there’s no way he can smuggle Brendon out again for a day trip. Brendon knows it, too; his eyes lose some of their brightness and he looks down, quiescent. “I’ll see if they want to come back down with me for a day,” Jon promises, and Brendon nods. Jon doesn’t hang around any longer, closing the door behind him and setting off in the direction of the woods.

He’s on the path up to the cottage when he hears a shout, and then another one immediately following. The second is Spencer; the first one, Jon thinks, was Ryan. He breaks into a run, shoes smacking against the dirt path, and rounds the corner of the cottage just as Spencer shouts again.

They’re both on the ground, Spencer half-kneeling over Ryan, and there’s blood on both of their shirts. Jon’s barely taken that in before he says, “Spencer,” and both of them look up.

Spencer’s eyes fix on him immediately, then widen. “Jon!” he yells, and Jon knows a warning shout when he hears one. The impact still takes him by surprise, a half-second before he was ready for it, and he goes down hard, rifle skidding away from him on the ground, with a feral werewolf on top of him going for his throat.

It’s completely insane, Jon can see it in its eyes, and the flecks of spittle clinging to the corners of its mouth. It’s clawing at his throat, drawing blood, and the only advantage Jon has is that he has about three times the muscle mass of the thing, because it used to be a little girl. Her dress is in tatters, bare sun-browned shoulders smudged with dirt, and the china-blue eyes don’t have any sense left in them at all.

She tries to bite him, and Jon shoves her back far enough to kick her in the stomach. She snarls harder at that, crouched and alert, and then she goes for what Jon finally sees is an axe, blood already staining the blade.

He lets her have it, because there’s no way he can beat her to it and it won’t do him any good as a weapon anyway. He goes for his rifle instead, but by the time he gets to it she’s back on him, swinging wildly for his head. He blocks the swing with his gun, turning it aside with a harsh grunt of effort, and jerks the barrel back up so it catches her under the chin. Her head snaps back and she staggers, dazed. Jon brings the rifle up to his shoulder and shoots her right between her big blue eyes.

For a minute, no one moves. The werewolf is definitely dead, staring vacantly up at the sky while blood slowly trickles into dirty blonde hair. Ryan and Spencer are silent, watching them, and Jon breathes hard, staring down at his latest kill. He’s never had to do this before, not like this. He’s never known what the wolf looked like in human form when he put a bullet in its skull.

Ryan makes a soft noise of pain, and Jon shakes himself out of it, tearing his eyes slowly away from the dead girl on the grass. She can’t have been more than twelve, he thinks. Probably closer to nine or ten. She looks vaguely familiar, too; Jon might have seen her before in the village. He probably knows her parents.

Spencer has both of his hands clamped tight around Ryan’s arm, above the bloody gash left by the axe. Ryan’s pale and sweating, but he’s still lucid, gaze flickering over Jon for signs of injury when he kneels beside them. “Are there any more?” Jon asks, and Spencer shakes his head. They’re still too vulnerable out here in the open. Jon needs to get them into the cottage, or at least to the safety of the garden.

“Did it bite either of you?” Jon asks, and once again Spencer shakes his head. The axe wound on Ryan’s arm, when Jon inspects it, is fairly bad but not deep. It’s not exactly unusual for werewolves to remember how to use human tools, but the knowledge tends to fade after the first few months. The one Jon had just killed must have barely had the strength to lift the axe, and only a distant memory of how to swing it, if she’d ever used one before at all.

He goes back to the body and tears a long strip of cloth off the hem of the cotton dress. He’ll need to move the body, dispose of it, but he doesn’t want to think about that yet. For now, he wraps the strip of cloth around Ryan’s arm and ties it off, replacing the pressure of Spencer’s blood-slick hands.

“Back,” he says, still vigilant, half-waiting for another werewolf to come out of the woods, attracted by the noise of the fight, and attack. It’s quiet around them, though, the birds starting to chirp again, and they make it to the door supporting Ryan between them without incident.

Jon pauses at the edge of the garden, but he can’t find what he’s looking for, not even when he looks a second time. “Where’s your wolfsbane?” he asks, looking over at Spencer. He remembers it being here before, an orderly ring of protection around the door to the kitchen.

Spencer grimaces. “We pulled it all up,” he says, and Jon bites back an oath because it wouldn’t help them any now. He doesn’t need to hear the ‘Brendon’ on the end of that sentence to know why they did it.

“Plant more,” he says, voice flat. That makes him think, though, makes him pause as Spencer lowers Ryan gently to the floor by the hearth. “Did you let it get close to you?” he asks, suspicion making his voice sharp. “Did you see it before it attacked?”

“No,” Ryan says, looking up from the floor. His eyes and mouth are still pinched with pain; Jon hooks the water pot over the fire to boil and adds another log to fuel the flames. “We were horsing around outside, not paying attention. It was stupid.”

Spencer’s eyes are on Jon, somber and piercing blue. “We know Brendon’s the exception and not the rule, Jon,” he says. “We know.”

Jon shakes his head and leans his rifle against the wall. “Brendon isn’t an exception,” he says, and goes outside to deal with the dead werewolf.

There’s no way he’s taking it back down to the village with him, in spite of his earlier ruse with Brendon. Just the thought makes him feel sick, and he’d be more vulnerable on the road, with both hands full and his vision partially obscured. Burning the body will make the place smell like a charnel house, so he grabs the shovel from the cellar, pushing aside the memory of Brendon down there in the dark, watching him, and starts digging a grave.

It’s noon by the time he tips the corpse into the hole he’s dug for it. His shirt is soaked through with sweat and sticky with drying blood, but the manual labor clears his head, unknots the sick lump in his belly. He dumps the last clump of dirt back onto the mound, patting it down with the flat side of the shovel, and goes back to the cottage.

Ryan’s sitting up, still pale but perfectly aware, drinking tea from a mug with hands that tremble slightly from the onset of shock. His arm is wrapped in clean white bandages, chest bare. Spencer’s next to him, clenching his hands together. There are still bloodstains on his sleeves, matching the ones on Jon’s shirt.

“Are you both all right? Jon asks. Ryan nods, answering for himself and Spencer. Neither of them ask about the werewolf.

“Let me get you something to eat,” Spencer says, standing up. His eyes don’t leave Ryan, so Jon puts a hand on his shoulder.

“I’ve got it,” he says. He knows where they keep their food, and cold sandwiches aren’t so hard to make. He’s grateful for the work to keep him busy, and he thinks Spencer would prefer not to leave Ryan’s side right now.

That’s why it almost surprises him when he tells them he’s heading out and Spencer says, “I’ll walk back with you.” Almost, but not quite. He knows Spencer’s thinking the same thing he is right now; that Jon’s going to go back to his cabin and do now what he should have done weeks ago. He wonders whether Spencer’s hoping to prevent him, or offering to be there when he does it.

Ryan knows it, too. His eyes are burning fiercely when he says, “He hasn’t gone feral. He’s not like that.”

“Yet,” Jon says, and his voice doesn’t sound tired, just honest. “He hasn’t been out in the forest, trying to catch wild animals to eat and startling awake throughout the night at every noise. He hasn’t been driven to it.” His throat feels thick when he finishes, “Yet.”

Ryan doesn’t say anything to that. There’s an awkward silence, and then Spencer repeats, “I’ll walk back with you.”

Jon shakes his head. “You stay here with Ryan,” he says. “He needs you.” It’s a dirty card to play, but as grateful as Jon would be for the company, he doesn’t want Spencer walking back to the cabin alone, not with Ryan unable to help him if there are any other creatures attracted by the scent of blood. Werewolves aren’t the only things living in the forest, just the most dangerous.

Spencer walks him to the door without further protest, handing Jon his rifle. His eyes hold Jon’s for a long moment, full of words, but all he says is, “Thank you.”

“Stay safe,” Jon answers, and starts the long walk back down to the village.

* * *

Jon doesn’t go straight back to his cabin. He goes to the tavern first, and thinks about Tom, getting drunk on memories and cheap ale for the first time in too long. It’s not a good feeling, exactly, but it’s a clean one, burning in his belly.

When he gets back to the cabin, Brendon is by the window, looking up at the moon and plucking out a sad melody on Jon’s mandolin. He glances over at Jon when he comes in, smiling ruefully. “It’s stupid,” he says, letting one last chord die in the air before his hands move to silence it. “I’m counting the days, but I still keep looking up. I’m afraid the full moon is going to somehow sneak up and surprise me.”

Jon doesn’t say anything. Brendon is back in the pants he’d borrowed from Spencer, but he’s wearing Tom’s festival shirt, the one with the laces up the sides. It’s loose on him, and Jon can see his skin peeking through in smooth, pale patches. Brendon hasn’t seen the sun in nearly a month.

Brendon finally seems to notice something is wrong. The line of his back straightens, tense. “What happened?” he asks, and there’s a waver in his voice. He’s seen the blood on Jon’s shirt.

Jon doesn’t answer, just strips off his shirt and tosses it onto the fire. He doesn’t want to wear it again. He walks over to Brendon and stands in front of him, staring hard like he’ll find the answer he’s looking for in Brendon’s brown eyes. There’s nothing there for him, though, just worry and fear, Brendon vibrating like he’s going to come out of his skin.

“Jon,” Brendon whispers. Jon puts a hand across his lips.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but it isn’t stopping him. He hooks his fingers in the laces of Brendon’s – Tom’s – shirt, pulls him up until they’re chest-to-chest, only a few inches apart. He leans in and puts his mouth on Brendon’s neck, open so he can taste the salt, the warmth. Brendon makes a confused noise, his arms hanging useless and uncertain by his sides. Jon drags Brendon closer, fingertips scraping across the bared patches of his skin, and bites down. Brendon groans then, low in his throat, and sways forward against Jon’s chest. Jon slides his hands around, digs his fingers into the meat of Brendon’s ass, and grinds their hips together.

Brendon’s shaking, but he doesn’t protest. He won’t, Jon thinks; even if he didn’t want this, there would be nothing he could do. He has nowhere to go, no allies, and Jon has a pistol with a silver bullet in it that’s meant for Brendon. Even if Brendon wanted to say no, he wouldn’t.

It doesn’t stop Jon from hauling him even closer, biting another mark onto Brendon’s shoulder, and squeezing his ass until Brendon whimpers. It doesn’t stop him from peeling the shirt off over Brendon’s arms, running his hands over all of that newly-bared skin, and pushing Brendon down onto his hands and knees by the hearth.

The floor is hard, but it’s not cold so close to the fire, and Jon doesn’t mind the discomfort. He pulls Brendon’s trousers down with more impatience than grace, spreading Brendon’s ass open with his hands, and is only distantly aware of Brendon’s moan when he bites down on the highest, fleshiest part of the curve. He wants this, more than he’s wanted anything in a long time, and he doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to think, because then he would have to stop, and he can’t stop now.

It’s slow going, and not easy even when Jon slicks himself up, but Brendon doesn’t make a sound. He shakes when Jon pushes in all the way, muscles tense and strained, and finally lets out a gasp when Jon shifts his weight and starts thrusting.

It’s almost eerily quiet, nothing but the wet slap of their skin and harsh breathing to break the silence, and Jon’s fine with that until he suddenly isn’t anymore, until he needs noise to block out the thoughts still swirling in his head. He grunts and covers Brendon completely, stretching over his back because Brendon is small enough to fit underneath him, and sinks his teeth into the back of Brendon’s neck.

Whether the part of Brendon that’s still a wolf recognizes it, or whether Brendon himself reacts, Jon doesn’t know, but he lets out a long, low groan and drops his head forward, signaling submission in a way that makes Jon’s stomach roll and his balls draw up in eager readiness. He doesn’t want it to end this soon, not yet, but he refuses to ease up or slow down, slamming against Brendon’s ass with thrust after thrust, and before he realizes it he’s coming, fingers digging bruises into Brendon’s hip as he groans.

Brendon curls in on himself, making soft, desperate noises, and Jon realizes he’s taken himself in hand and is finishing off, his body convulsing just after Jon pulls out and lets go. They’re both still for a moment, just breathing heavily and waiting, and then Jon pulls his trousers up and stands. He feels dizzy, a little sick, and all he can think is that this wasn’t what he came home to do.

Brendon rolls onto his back, unashamed, his trousers still around his knees. He looks up at Jon with eyes full of questions, but he doesn’t say any of them aloud. What he says is, “I think we should talk about it. About me changing.”

“No,” Jon says. His voice is rough and hoarse.

“Werewolves go feral because they spend every day being hunted and afraid, starving, isn’t that what you said?” There’s an edge of desperation in Brendon’s voice that Jon doesn’t want to hear. He wants to turn Brendon over and fuck him again, drive into him until they both forget this conversation. He can’t, though, not so soon, and Brendon won’t stop talking.

The werewolves took Tom, and Jon took him back. He doesn’t know how to reclaim Brendon, except like this, with his hands and his mouth and his cock. He doesn’t think this is the way.

“The full moon is tomorrow,” Brendon whispers. “Jon.”

Jon swallows, and lets his hands drop to his sides. “I know,” he says.

Brendon’s eyes start shimmering in the firelight, full and wet. “Please,” he whispers.

Jon closes his eyes, and tries not to think about how many hours there are between now and when Brendon inevitably turns. He’s killed a lot, since Tom. It’s almost easy now, raising the gun and taking aim at something that looks nothing like a human. He doesn’t have to think about it.

He can’t save Brendon. Part of him doesn’t even want to save Brendon. If he saves Brendon, it means he could have saved Tom.

“Let’s go to bed,” Jon says. His voice is still rusty, and the back of his throat tastes like mead and honey. He turns away and goes to the bedroom, not listening for Brendon’s footfalls behind him. He strips naked and turns back the covers on his bed, preparing to climb in. He looks at the pistol on the nightstand, and the bullet beside it.

He picks up the gun, opens the cylinder, loads the bullet. He clicks it shut, and when he looks up, Brendon is standing naked in the doorway, watching him. There’s a shiny, flaking smear on the skin of his stomach, and a bite mark standing out pink and livid on his shoulder. Jon climbs into bed and sets the pistol down on the nightstand. He leaves the covers turned back.

Brendon hasn’t moved from the doorway. When Jon closes his eyes, he hears only silence, and then the belated whisper of Brendon moving into the room. The bed dips as he sits, sliding in beneath the covers and pulling them up. His knuckles knock against the wooden nightstand when he lies down.

The bed is small enough that Jon can feel Brendon all along his front, skin against skin. Brendon is warm, almost too much to be comfortable under the heavy covers even this far into autumn, and his hair is soft where it brushes Jon’s face. He inhales, tense, and Jon can feel the weight of the words trapped in his chest. Both of them are silent for a long moment, and then Brendon exhales, letting it go. His hand curls against Jon’s stomach, loose and warm.

Jon waits in the dark and listens to Brendon breathe.


End file.
